


The Game

by Emily Waters (missparker)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/Emily%20Waters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By year seven, things were beginning to get out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The game had started in bitterness and resentment. The truth was, though it was never a secret, they didn't like each other at first. To Simon, Paula was dainty and dated, a liability at best and an undeserving diva at worst. To Paula, Simon was too far out of his element, abrasive, and unwilling to bend or change any amount. She thought the show would fail; she needed a job. What could it hurt working for a little while? The answer to that question was Simon and on her first day, she wanted to walk out more than once. Randy talked her down from the ledge again and again.

"You need to find a way to make it work," Randy said. He had so much faith in the program, had it from the start.

"Okay," she said, more than once. "One more chance."

But it was Simon who had started the game.

"Bet you can't be nice to me all day," he'd said. She'd accepted the challenge and though he'd been an ass all day, she'd kept up her agreement and had remained pleasant through clenched teeth. The next week, she'd upped it a little by responding.

"Bet you can't go all day without cursing."

He'd accepted and surprised them both by being successful, even through dropping his phone onto concrete, stubbing his toe and spilling his water across the glass table. Soon, the game was known to all the American Idol staff and while it was sometimes frustrating, no one said a word because it helped Simon and Paula get along. The thing about the game was it got exponentially more demanding. Paula demanded that Simon listen to one of her albums on repeat for the whole day (and nothing else) and Simon requested that Paula spend a day in flats and then proceeded to mock her height rather aggressively. By the end of the second year, they'd struck up a tentative friendship and the game shifted from being about causing anguish to being more about entertainment.

In year three, Simon bet Paula she couldn't spend a day without her cell phone. She could, though when she finally checked her messages in the morning, fourteen of them were from Simon. Some were taunting her, expecting failure. Some were expressing surprise she'd made it so far. One was him playing one of her songs into the speaker.

"Remember when you made me listen to your music?" he said. "I kind of like this one."

She smiled, despite herself.

By year seven, things were beginning to get out of hand. Neither Simon nor Paula had ever turned down or backed out of a bet. To do so would be to lose the game and to lose the game would be unthinkable. Already, Paula had forced Simon to give one of his cars away to charity rather than selling it for thousands of dollars. Paula's stint as a guest judge of the X-Factor was the result of a bet. Now, the truth was they were running out of ideas. There was an agreement to keep things out of the press and it was getting harder to do so. Plus, now their friendship was thick, solid, and seemingly unbreakable. Even when they fought, it was petty at best and always eventually resolved.

In some ways, they also played a parallel but much lazier version.

"Bet you won't get me a Diet Coke," Paula would say and he would sigh and retrieve it for her.

"Bet you won't let me drink half," he'd say and she'd have to share. Or, maybe, she'd call him in the middle of the night and bet him he wouldn't be on time the next morning so he'd drag in tired and cranky, but punctual. But only when she felt particularly spiteful. It wasn't as if he was always nice. It was Simon; he rarely played fair.

There were other rules besides about the press. They didn't do things that would overtly and adversely affect their careers. Nothing that might endanger their lives or the lives of others. Nothing meant to break the other emotionally. He would never say, "Bet you can't have a baby," because for all their fighting, he would never want to cut her so deeply. And she was, of course, ultimately more benevolent than he. Sometimes she'd have a good one planned ("Bet you won't kiss Ryan with tongue,") but she'd see him and his tight expression and hunched shoulders and instead she'd say something nice.

"Bet you won't hug me."

She'd say it just to feel his arms around her. He'd reply, "Bet you won't kiss me," and so she would pucker her lips and kiss him, her mouth closed but her lips firm against his.

Paula called Simon the day before the finale of their seventh season. It was a Monday and there was a heat wave, severe even for L.A. She called him from her kitchen where she was currently lying on the floor. The tile was the coolest place in the house. Beside her, her dogs were sprawled out as well, panting and miserable.

"Hey," he answered.

"Simon, I have terrible news," she said, her misery evident in her voice.

"What's wrong," he said, snapping to business. "What happened?"

"My air conditioning broke," she whined. She heard him exhale loudly.

"Your air? I was worried there for a second! Jesus, Paula," he said.

"You should be worried!" she exclaimed. "I'm dying."

"Bet you're dying," he said, out of habit more than anything else.

"Shut up," she muttered. "They're not coming to fix it until tomorrow."

"What the bloody hell do you want me to do about it?" he said.

"Save me," she replied simply.

"Well, you have a swimming pool," he pointed out.

"So do you," she said.

"I can see that you're fishing for an invitation," he said, laughing. "But I'm not even home."

"So?" she said. "When will you be home?"

"Tonight," he said. "But you have a key. Go on over and live it up."

Simon had given Paula Terri's copy of the house key when she had moved out.

"I'm giving this to you so I don't give it to another twenty-five year old girl who wants me for her career as much as for my body," he'd said. She hung up the phone and struggled for a moment to get off the floor before moving to the table by the door where her keys were. She looked at Simon's key, held it up to the light. It was odd to think this was the same key that lived on Terri's keychain for years and years; that she held it in her hands and used it and called it the key to her home.

Now, it was Paula's key. She was wearing white shorts and a yellow, ribbed tank top. She slid her feet into her flip-flops and looked at her dogs.

"You wanna go to uncle Simon's house?" she said. Simon would be less than thrilled to come home and find her dogs in his house, she knew that, but he did love her dogs and if she kept them in the yard he'd probably be fine with it. The dogs perked up at the sound of her voice and when she opened the front door, they all trotted out and milled around by the car. They knew drill. She picked them up one by one and set them into the back of her SUV on their blanket. She already had a bag of their toys in the car, so she made sure she had her purse and headed off to Simon's.

When she walked into the house, she was greeted by a waved of cool air and she sighed. She let the dogs enter but snapped and pointed to the back door.

"Outside," she demanded and pushed open the slider so they could trot out and lie down on the shaded cement. She heard movement from the stairs and saw Simon's housekeeper, Orbelina, appeared. "Hi 'Lina," she said.

"Hola Miss Paula," she replied. "Did you need something?"

"Simon said I could stay," she said. Orbelina regarded her for a moment and then shrugged and pointed up the stairs as if to say she'd be there should Paula need anything. Which was just fine with Paula. She rarely went upstairs. It was always understood to be Terri's territory in the house and now that Terri was gone, it was still a no-man land to Paula.

Simon's rarely used office was downstairs, as was the big television and the kitchen and all she really wanted to do is curl up on the sofa and maybe, eventually, check her e-mail if she felt up to it. Tuesday and Wednesday were going to be intense days and after the Idol was finally crowned there would be press out the rear so she took this day to relax.

She was on the couch, the TV on mute on the TV guide station when Orbelina came back downstairs and looked at her expectantly.

"It's time," she said

"Time for what?" Paula asked.

"Mr. Cowell is on TV," she said. Paula couldn't keep up with Simon's press, or Randy's. They used to do every junket together, from Larry King to Jay Leno but as the years had progressed they'd all separated to spare everyone else's schedule. Paula did the upfronts in New York entirely on her own this year, which was exhausting. But she never complained.

"Which show?" Paula asked. Orbelina took the remote and found the station. Simon was apparently doing the Ellen show today. Paula sat up and made room on the sofa for Orbelina who sat next to her with a soft "gracias."

When Simon came out she heard her own song playing. Clearly, it was 'Opposites Attract' but still, it was exciting to hear her own music on a program with a wide audience and the smile that Simon couldn't suppress was also endearing. The segment wasn't very long, but long enough for Simon to sing the David Cook song and dance. She could see why he was predicting Cook, but she had a soft spot for David Archuleta and wouldn't be surprised if the young thing pulled it out in the end after all. Frankly, by this time in the game, she didn't care who won, she just wanted to crown a winner and sleep through the summer far away from Los Angeles.

"He looks good," Orbelina said, pointing to the TV. "No?"

"He does," Paula conceded. "But don't tell him I said so."

"You no on Ellen?" Orbelina asked, curiously.

"Guess not," she murmured. When the segment was over, Orbelina disappeared and left Paula to herself. She reached for her phone and stepped outside, intent on checking the dogs. It was warm outside, so Paula sat with her feet dangling in the pool and looked at her phone. The water was cool as it swirled around her calves. Part of her wanted to call him but she texted instead.

_You are too cute. Did you like your song?_

It took a couple minutes for a response to come, but soon her phone buzzed.

_E asked about you. Should have come with. Are you at my house?_

She smiled; she liked Ellen and knew her from doing the show and from meeting at parties before. Ellen liked her because she openly supported the Gays.

_Outside with the babies by the pool._

His answer came faster now.

_The dogs? Ugh. You in a skimpy suit?_

She rolled her eyes.

_It's under my clothes, if you must know. What are you doing now?_

She was actually a little tempted to either get in the pool or go back inside but now that she knew that Simon knew she was out there, she couldn't go in.

_Going to a late lunch with someone boring. Save me?_

She knew what he was asking and while she usually didn't give into his whims, the end of Idol often meant the end of Simon in America for a number of months, so she felt like indulging him this once.

_Bet you won't blow off your meeting to hang with me._ She hit send and had to wait only seconds.

_That's my girl._

She moved to the table under the awning to wait for him. The dogs were panting and she had set out water for them. They took turns drinking and rubbing against her ankles like cats but with less grace. It was good to be out of the sun. She put on sunscreen every morning; she had to living in Southern California, but for as tan as she was, it wasn't from the sun. The last thing she needed was skin cancer and her skin has, all things considered, had held up pretty well over the years.

Surprisingly, Simon was home in almost no time. He came out through the sliding door and peered at her from over the rims of his sunglasses.

"Fully clothed? That's rather disappointing."

"Flirt," she said.

"I thought you came to get out of the heat," he said. "Come inside with me."

She followed him in and they went to the kitchen. She slid onto one of the stools at the counter and watched him root around in the refrigerator for two cold bottles of water. He opened hers for her before he handed it to her, which from anyone else would have bothered her immensely but was somehow familiar and nice from him.

"Ellen Degeneres loves you," Paula said, conversationally.

"I know," he said. "Why do you think that is?"

"I have no clue," she said.

"Perhaps it's my stunning good looks or maybe my charm," he said, smiling.

"Or maybe it's your modesty," she shot back.

"All right, I canceled my day for you; you ought to be nice," he scolded.

"You made me make you cancel!" she cried.

"Then let's do something fun!" he said.

"I thought you needed to pack," she said.

"Well," he shrugged. "You do too, I imagine."

"Are you sure it's all right?" Paula asked again, still unconvinced. Simon had invited her to stay with him in London when she expressed an interest in summering outside of the states.

"For the last time, yes!" he exclaimed. "You can stay as long as you want. If you get tired of me you can go to Paris or Barcelona or, I don't know, Stockholm and when you miss me you can come back."

"Stockholm?" she snickered.

"Shush," he said. "Let's go upstairs and you can see how packed I really am."

"Upstairs?" she said, peering past him at the stairs.

"Come on," he urged, snagging her elbow and pulling her along with him. Upstairs wasn't as cool as down, as the heat rose, but she didn't complain. His bedroom doors were open and he could see two large suitcases empty across the large mattress.

"So you've packed...?"

"That's right, not a thing," he said. "I need help."

"Well, I mean," she said, walking to his open closet and looking at the long row of jeans and dark sweaters. "You have clothes and stuff in London, right?"

"But I'm used to these," he whined. "I want these."

"Then put them in the suitcase!" she exclaimed. "It's not rocket science."

"When I do it, they get all wrinkly," he complained. "It needs a woman's touch."

"Oy Vey," she said. "So really, what you're saying is you're used to Terri packing for you and now that she's gone you're trying to sucker me into doing it for you?"

"Bet you won't..."

"Don't!" she exclaimed. "I'm going to help you but I want you to know it's because you're my friend, not because you made me." This made him pause and blink.

"All right," he said. "Thank you."

"You're so helpless," she muttered, starting to pull hangers from the closet and tossing them on the bed. "All the money in the world and you can't fold a sweater." He sat on the bed, watching her. She riffled through his clothes like the shopper she was, pushing aside hangers quickly and making snap judgments on whether or not to bring something. When that was done, she started folding. He watched her, her precise movements, the way she ran her hands over the folds and how carefully she set the garment into the suitcase.

"Speaking of Terri," Paula said into the silence.

"Must we?"

"I invited her to the Lakers game with me on Friday," Paula said.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Why?"

"Well, just because you broke up doesn't mean we aren't friends anymore," she said, primly.

"Oh come off it, you two were never that close," he scoffed.

"We were always friendly," she argued, knowing he was right. "I think it's good for the media to see that just because the two of you are over, it doesn't mean I've cast her off as well."

Simon knew exactly what she was doing. She was showing the world that she and Terri were still friends so that if the media caught wind of her vacationing with Simon, they wouldn't paint her as the other woman. It was smart, really. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I didn't cast her off. We wanted different things," he said. They had wanted different things from the start.

"Whatever," she said. "You'll already be gone so what does it matter?"

"Will you miss me?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I'll see you a week after you leave," she pointed out.

"That didn't answer my question," he said.

"Yes," she admitted after a slight pause. "I always miss you when you're gone." He held out his hand.

"Come here," he ordered. She crawled across the pile of jeans to him on the bed and sat against the headboard next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You're sweet."

"You aren't," she bantered back, but her heart wasn't in it and her words held little venom when she was leaning into him.

Simon offered to let her stay, the guestroom of course, but she declined.

"I have a busy day tomorrow," she said. "As do you."

He walked her and the dogs out to her car and hugged her goodbye, watching her drive away and only going back inside when he could no longer see the glow of her taillights.

Paula always went through the season finale of Idol in a blur. There was so much press, so many appointments to get ready for the day. She was always was inundated with phone calls from family, friends, and distant acquaintances trying to get tickets to the show and she tried hard to get as many of them in as she could. There were wardrobe fittings, production meetings, rehearsals, and the red carpet to prepare for. And even when the winner was announced, it wasn't over. There was more press not to mention the after party, and the after, after party. It was the one night a year she stayed up to watch the sunrise.

When Ryan announced David Cook as the winner, Paula did the first thing that came to her mind. She turned to Simon and threw open her arms.

"We're going to lose track of each other tonight at some point," he whispered in her ear, his arms tight around her.

"Yeah?" she said.

"Call me before you go to sleep," he begged.

"Okay," she agreed.

And they did lose track of each other. She saw him at Skybar after dinner, but when she left the club, he was nowhere to be found and when they arrived at the next party, he wasn't there either.

It was nearly 5:00am when her driver dropped her off at her house. She walked to the door with her shoes in her hand and opened the door, happy that her house was empty, for once. She was about to fall on her bed when she remembered her promise to call Simon. Her phone was in her purse so she reached for the house phone and dialed.

"Cowell," he answered.

"It's me," she said, her voice sleepy and hoarse from yelling all night over loud music and the din of general celebration. "I'm home."

"Home?" he exclaimed. "It's not even light out!"

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Seacrest's house," he said. "I've actually been here for a couple hours."

"Well, I usually stay up to watch the sun, but I think I'm just going to crash," she admitted.

"No, no, no," he said. "No."

"I'm so tired," she whined.

"Stay awake!" he demanded. "I'm coming over. We're watching the sun come up together if it's the last thing I do on this earth."

"Mmmkay," she said and hung up the phone. She would just close her eyes until he arrived.

Simon thought about knocking, but he had a key so he just let himself in instead. She'd given him a copy when he'd offered her Terri's old key. She had wanted things to be 'fair' but he suspected she was happy for him to have a copy.

All was quiet inside and his shoes on the stairs made not a sound. The door to her bedroom wasn't latched and he pushed it open. He could see her sprawled out on the bed, asleep on top of the comforter. Earlier in the night she'd exchanged her red, formal gown for a black cocktail dress. She was still in the small dress, still in full make-up. She still had all her jewelry on. He leaned over her, and pushed her bangs out of her eyes softly. He could see one of her false eyelashes coming unglued at the corner of her eye, he could see where her lipstick was running a little thin – she was still rather lovely.

"Paula," he whispered.

"Hmm," she said, but didn't open her eyes. It wasn't much of an acknowledgment, really.

"Wake up, you're going to miss the sunrise," he said.

"Simon?" she asked, rolling over and opening her eyes slightly.

"Come on," he said, pulling on her arms. She tiredly stumbled to her feet, leaning heavily into him with a slight grunt. He navigated them out onto the balcony before she really opened her eyes and looked around.

"Wrong side of the house, genius," she said and put her head back against his chest, her eyes closed once more.

"You haven't been drinking have you?" he teased.

"Redbull crash," she said, her words muffled. Sighing, he leaned down and slid his arm behind her knees. He lifted and she fit easily in his arms, all the willing to be carried. She wormed her arms around his neck.

"You ever tell anyone about this, I'm substituting Redbull for cocaine when I retell the story," he threatened.

"Shut up," she said, sighing. He made his way through the bedroom and down the stairs without injuring her. When they got to the back door, he set her down gently and opened the door. Outside was chilly but he could see the pink light on the horizon.

"It's going to be lovely," he said. "So now would be the time to wake up."

"I liked when you were carrying me," she said, opening her eyes. "I was warm."

"They have this invention called pants," he said. She stuck out her tongue.

"You don't like my dress?"

"You look beautiful," he said, dutifully. "I especially liked the red dress. I didn't have to be sly about staring at your cleavage. All I had to do was look in your general direction and I got the full show."

"Took twenty minutes to un-tape me," she said.

"Here we go," he said, pointing to the sky. They were quiet while the sun arrived. She slipped her hand into his and he held on tight. When the sun was up she turned to him a smiled, her face bathed in a warm, orange glow.

"Can we go to sleep now?" she asked.

"I think we've earned it," he said. "Come on."

He walked her back up to her room.

"You can stay in the guest room if you want," she offered.

"My plane leaves in a few hours," he said. "I have to go to the airport."

"Oh yeah," she said, her face falling just a little.

"I wish you were on my flight," he said.

"I know," she said. "But I'll be there in a week."

"All right," he said. "Need help with that zipper?"

"You wish," she said. "Have a good flight."

"I will. See you soon," he said and turned away to head for the stairs.

"Simon?"

"Yes?" he said, turning back.

"I bet you won't kiss me goodbye," she said.

"I accept your challenge," he said, smiling and took a few steps back to her. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. He tilted his head and pressed his lips against hers for a quick but intimate kiss. He pulled back and looked down at her.

"I bet you won't kiss me better than that," she whispered.

"Paula," he said, warningly. "Do you mean that?"

"Are you admitting defeat?" she asked, her eyes lighting up. She had no idea what actually winning the game would entail because both were too stubborn to let it happen, but she was pretty sure some amount of slavery would be involved.

"Never," he said, and leaned down again, his mouth against hers aggressively. He pushed his tongue in past her lips. He could taste the Redbull on her tongue just as she could probably taste the alcohol and cigarettes on his but it didn't matter. She was kissing him back, her tongue moving just as surely against his own. He slid his hands down her back to rest on her butt and when he gave a little squeeze, she giggled and pushed him back, breaking the kiss.

"I don't care who you're dating or if I get re-married or what the hell happens, promise me you'll never stop kissing me like that," she said, resting her forehead against his chest.

"I can do plenty more than kiss you," he said, half serious.

"All right," she said. "The lack of sleep is making us crazy officially now."

"Fine, fine," he said and smiled at her. "One week?"

"One week," she promised.


	2. Chapter 2

Terri drove to the Staples Center, happy to pick up Paula. Paula had been feeling fine about spending the evening with Terri but that was before she'd kissed Simon. Paula had kissed Simon before, of course. After they'd filmed the skit, the kissing had become an at least bi-annual occurrence, but she'd never kissed him when he was single. She'd used Terri as an excuse for years not to do anything rash with Simon and now that excuse was gone.

Terri didn't know about that, though, and Paula knew she wouldn't appreciate hearing about it now. So she kept her mouth shut and tried to keep Terri talking.

"Do you have plans for the summer?" Paula asked.

"Working mostly," Terri replied. "I'm covering So You Think You Can Dance this season, also."

"Congratulations!" Paula said. "That's great."

"It will keep me busy, anyway," Terri said.

"I'm sorry things are hard now," Paula said. "But you know it's better this way. He was never going to be what you wanted."

"I know," Terri said. They were saved from further conversation about Simon by the valet. They didn't talk about it again until they were sitting courtside, fifteen minutes into the game. Paula could see Victoria and David Beckham down the court and Paula knew more celebrities would show up as the game progressed. She could see Eva Longoria across the court on the Spurs side. One thing she could count on was she wouldn't be the largest celebrity at the Staples Center but she was the only celebrity with a cheerleading outfit hanging on the wall. She let that be some consolation.

"Thanks for taking me out," Terri said. "Everyone has been... well, you know. It's like friends have to choose sides."

"That's ridiculous," Paula said.

"Is it?" Terri asked. "I wouldn't have blamed you for choosing Simon. You have to work with him."

"I have to work with you, too," she pointed out.

"It's not the same," Terri said. Paula didn't know what to say. In some ways Terri was right – Paula wasn't the type to choose sides, but if she had to choose, of course she'd choose Simon. There was really no question. She'd choose Simon over Ryan, she'd choose him over Randy, she'd choose him over the whole of American Idol.

"Maybe not," Paula murmured. "But I don't choose."

"I appreciate that," Terri said. They paused to cheer along with the crowd as the basketball made its way into the hoop. Terri had to lean in to be heard. "What are you doing with your summer?"

"I was thinking of going abroad," Paula said. It wasn't the most honest way to answer the question. She wasn't thinking about it, she was going and her ticket had been booked for over a month and by abroad she meant London with a few unscheduled side trips. But, those were all minor details she didn't feel like sharing.

"Oh!" Terri said. "Fun."

They watched the game for a moment.

"Will you see Simon?" Terri asked. Paula blinked and decided, as she usually did, against lying.

"Most likely," she said. "Does that bother you?"

"You're his friend," Terri said. She laughed, more of a scoff since it was devoid of anything resembling joy or mirth. "You're his best friend."

"That's a laugh riot," Paula said.

"Why?"

"Me?" Paula said. "His best friend? 75 percent of the time he can't stand me and when he does deem me fun enough to hang out with, the time is filled with mockery and stupid bets."

"Ah yes," Terri said. "The game."

"The stupid game!" Paula exclaimed, her loud voice dwarfed by the roar of the crowd. "Which if he really liked me, we wouldn't play."

"Are you serious?" Terri said. "I couldn't get the man to play a hand of cards with me, let alone a seven year game. He loves that stupid game."

Paula made a face of disbelief.

"Honey, I have made him do some terrible things over the years," she said. "Including but not limited to cleaning up dog poop, chauffeuring my father around for a day, and giving up Nutella for a month."

"That one was mean," Terri said, laughing. "But you see? The man loves his Nutella and he didn't even cheat once!"

"What are you saying?" Paula asked.

"I'm saying," Terri said, sighing. "I'm saying when he looks at you his eyes go soft and when he looks at me, or when he looked at me until the end, it was like he was looking through me. Like I wasn't even there."

"Oh, honey," Paula said, and touched her hand.

"Will you tell me the truth?" Terri asked. It was a loaded question and Paula nodded her head. "Are you and Simon... together?"

"No," Paula said.

"And you have no plans to...?" Terri prompted.

"I can't see the future," Paula said. "Do I think Simon Cowell is the love of my life?" Maybe. "Probably not."

"That wasn't exactly a no," Terri pointed out. Paula didn't know what to say but was saved when she recognized Patrick Swayze coming toward her. They'd known each other a long time and she tried not to make a sad face when she saw him. He was thin and gaunt, though smiling at her. She stood and hugged him, allowed him to kiss her cheek. She introduced him to Terri and they made small talk for a while. She didn't bring up his cancer, which he seemed to appreciate and when he finally went back to his seat, petty bickering about boyfriends just didn't seem important anymore.

It was a quiet ride home.

"I don't care what you do," Terri said, into the darkness of the car.

"What I do?" Paula said, tiredly. She just wanted to be home, to be out of her tight clothes and in her warm bed.

"About Simon," Terri said.

"Okay," Paula said. "That's good to know."

"I mean, I know he gave you a house key," Terri continued.

"You aren't exactly convincing me that you don't care," Paula said. "Just so you know."

"Well I don't."

"Why did you agree to come with me tonight if you were just going to be mad?" Paula asked.

"Why did you invite me?" Terri responded.

"I thought we were friends," Paula said. "Aren't we?"

"You're Simon's friend," she said.

"You don't owe him anything, honey," Paula said, sadly. "I'm not something that he won in the divorce. I can be both of your friends."

"All right," Terri said, clearly believing that this couldn't be true.

Paula was grateful when they arrived home, grateful to watch Terri drive away. She wouldn't call her again. The ball was in Terri's court but somehow Paula knew that she wouldn't be seeing Terri outside of work any longer.

In the morning, Paula made coffee and did her workout before showering. Her only real task of the day was to start organizing her packing. Packing for Simon was easy – put the clothes in the suitcase and go. Her own closet was not so easy to wrangle. Black sweaters went with everything, but Paula had outfits. They had to be coordinated down to the shoes and accessories and nothing noticeable could be repeated. She was just photographed too often.

She was sipping her coffee, contemplating a floor-to-ceiling wall of high heels when Simon called her.

"Are you packing?" he asked, answering her greeting.

"Sometimes it's eerie how you know what I'm doing," she said. "Do you know what I'm wearing too?"

"Aw, did Ryan tell you about the cameras I had installed?" he teased.

"Stalker."

"How was the Lakers game?" he asked, his tone light and conversational.

"Because you love basketball, right?"

"It's an interesting sport," he lied.

"You mean how was your ex?" she asked. "Fine."

"I saw pictures of the two of you on the computer," he said. Paula rolled her eyes. For all Simon had accomplished with his life, which was admittedly a lot, he was totally inept when it came to technology. Half the time he couldn't get a CD player to function properly – the fact he'd managed to find anything on the computer was a miracle, let alone navigate the Internet.

"TMZ?" Paula asked.

"I don't know, probably," he said.

"Yeah, I saw that weasely photographer there," she sighed. "Terri was, you know..."

"I don't know, which is why I'm asking."

"She said that she didn't care what you did or what I did or what we did together," Paula said.

"Well that's good," he said. "Adult of her."

"Are you kidding me? She was a liar! A lying liar, full of lies. She cared, she cared a lot," Paula said.

"A lying liar, full of lies?" he asked.

"She lies all the time," Paula confirmed. "You know what I mean?"

"You're nuts," he said. "You still coming to see me?"

"Oh, I suppose," she said, as if it was all a very big inconvenience.

"I'm on pins and needles, waiting," he said. "Bye, love."

"Bye, bye," she said, ending the call. She tossed the phone onto the island counter in the closet and went back to the shoes. At least when she knew how long the trip was going to be, she could plan for a day by day itinerary but she hadn't even booked the flight back yet. She could stay a week; she could stay three months. She'd spend some time with Simon but he was right, she also wanted to go see a lot more of Europe. He'd be filming the tail end of Britain's Got Talent anyway, so she'd have time to travel while he was working.

She looked at the shoes and shrugged. If she didn't have the right pair, there was plenty of shopping in Europe.

Paula woke up the next morning feeling awful. And not just a tickle in her throat or something being a little off, but downright terrible. Her sinuses were pulsing in time with the sharp pain in her temples and when she tried to take a deep breath in, she spent the next minute coughing, trying to recover.

"Ow," she moaned, and opened her eyes enough to look at the clock on the nightstand. It was just after 8:00am and that was yet more proof that she was feeling ill – she almost never slept that late into the morning unless she had the entire day off. As if on cue somehow, her phone rang. It was her assistant, Pam.

"Good morning, Paula," she said, sounding far too chipper for her own good.

"That remains to be seen," Paula muttered, throwing off the bedclothes intent on finding a box of tissue and getting right back into bed.

"I faxed your schedule over," Pam started, launching into their morning routine without a hitch.

"Pam," Paula said, knowing that if she let the woman hit her stride, there was no stopping her. "Pam, I need you to clear the day."

There was a long pause.

"I'm sorry?" Pam said. Paula almost never canceled on anyone, especially on the day of. She'd gone on Idol in a sling once, had gone to the finale after falling on her face.

"I don't feel well," Paula said.

"Oh," Pam said. "Do you want some chicken soup or something?"

"My vegetarianism aside, unless you plan to use it to flush my sinuses, I'll pass, thanks," Paula said. Being sick made her extremely crabby.

"If you think it's a sinus infection, I can make a doctor's appointment," Pam offered.

"Maybe," Paula said. "Let's wait a day."

"I hate to say this because I know you're excited to see Si—I mean to go to Europe, but you really shouldn't fly with a sinus infection." Pam said. Paula ignored the obvious slip.

"I know," she said softly. "You should probably push that back as well."

"Just London or Germany too?" Pam asked.

"Germany too," Paula said. "I think it's probably for the best."

"All right," Pam said, sounding both relieved and disappointed somehow.

When Paula hung up, she looked at the phone in her hand and sighed a heavy sigh, which only made her start to cough again. She needed to call Simon and inform him that she would not be arriving as planned. Simon was not going to be happy.

She didn't call right away. She could stall for a couple of hours due to the time difference but as those hours passed, she really felt worse. Her throat began to hurt every time she swallowed and her nose started to run in earnest. She went back to bed, deciding to call him after a nap.

Eventually he called her, waking her.

"It's Simon," he said in response to her groggy hello.

"Oh," she said, sitting up and looking at the clock. She'd slept most of the day away. "Hi."

"Don't sound so excited," he admonished sarcastically. "I hope your mood improves by the time you get here." Simon somehow always managed to cut through the pleasantries and get right to the topic she wished to avoid.

"Bet you will get mad when I tell you this," she said in a small voice. There was a long pause.

"You aren't coming?" he guessed, his voice strangely neutral.

"I woke up with an awful head cold," she admitted. "Don't I sound stuffy?"

"A bit," he acknowledged.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We're just pushing it back a bit. You'll finish Britain's Got Talent without me distracting you. I can come before you start to travel for X-Factor."

"That sounds nice," he said in that same even tone. She could tell he was mad but wasn't going to let her see it.

"I really am out of sorts," she promised.

"I believe you," he said. "Just let me know when you do plan on coming and I'll arrange my schedule accordingly."

"Why are you talking to me like I'm one of your employees?" she demanded.

"I'm not!" he said. "I'm just disappointed. We barely even said goodbye, you know."

"You talk to me nearly every day," she said.

"Just," he said. "Feel better. I'll talk to you later, yes?"

"Yes," she agreed. "Bye."

She spent the rest of the day feeling guilty and disappointed. She took a hot shower and let the steam clear her sinuses as much as it could. She made the water so hot it was nearly unbearable but the steam filled the room and she took deep breaths, as deep as she could without causing another coughing fit. When the hot water started to give, she shut the water off and stepped carefully out of the shower. She took a clean towel off the rack and wrapped it around her hair. It was warm enough in the room that she didn't bother to towel off. Instead she stood dripping on her bathmat and looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was fogged over; she could only just make out the shape, the brown of her skin and the rose of towel wound at the top of her head. She could see the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. She leaned over the sink and wiped the mirror with her hand. Her blurry face came into view.

Her face was free of make-up and her skin pink from the heat of the shower. She scrunched her nose, and stuck out her tongue. She opened her eyes widely and then squinted them closed. No matter what face she made, she was definitely getting older. Her breasts used to sit higher on her chest, she was sure. Her backside used to be firmer, her skin tighter and softer. She was beginning to lose her jaw line, the skin sagging more and more every year. It was just as disappointing as it had seemed when she was in her twenties.

Maybe it was for the best that she'd postponed her trip. Paula and Simon were precariously close to betting one another into bed and she just didn't want Simon to be disappointed when he saw her, disappointed that this was all she had to offer.


	3. Chapter 3

Paula had decided, once her cold let up, to kick up her exercise regime. She was running a few extra miles every day. She was on the treadmill when Kylie came into her workout room. She had a gym membership, of course, and tended to favor working out there, but lately she hadn't wanted to leave the house. Kylie watched Paula run for a few minutes. The music was on so loud that she could have yelled and Paula wouldn't have heard her anyway. Instead, she found the stereo and turned the volume knob down low enough that dignified people could converse. Paula looked up. She was completely flushed and sweaty – her skin glistened brightly in the morning sunshine that filtered into the room.

"What's up?" she asked, sounding breathless and still a little stuffy.

"Should you be pushing yourself this hard so soon?" Kylie asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," Paula said, but shut off the treadmill just the same and used a towel to mop her forehead and across her chest.

"Okay," Kylie said. "We need to talk about your dress for the MTV Movie awards."

"Oh," Paula said. "Actually, I, uh, RSPVed no to that."

"You what?" Kylie asked. "What for?"

"Well I wasn't sure if I was going to be in the country, after all," Paula said, sounding less than truthful.

"Well, we can get you back in," Kylie said, reaching for her phone. "I can do it right now."

"No," Paula said. "I just... you know. Don't want to go."

"All right," Kylie said slowly. Paula almost never turned down invitations to big events, especially something as star studded as an MTV production. But ever since the end of Idol, she'd been acting awfully peculiar. She kept putting things off due to being out of the country, but Pam had told Kylie that Paula hadn't yet requested the reschedule of the Europe trip. "Pam wants to know what you want for lunch."

"Nothing," Paula said. "I'm on this new diet – no carbs and only two meals a day."

Kylie nodded, tight-lipped, and excused herself from the workout room. She was worried now. In almost five years of working for Paula, she'd never seen signs of the infamous eating disorder until now. Kylie knew her boss was eating, she saw it, but had never seen her so aware of her body before. Paula was tiny, Kylie felt like an Amazon woman just standing next to her and for her age, Paula was in exquisite shape.

Upstairs, Pam was standing in the kitchen, leaning over her laptop on the counter.

"What'd she say?" Pam asked. "She want take out?"

"No," Kylie said. "I think..."

"What?"

"I think something is wrong."

Pam sighed. She'd been waiting for someone else to say something, for someone else to acknowledge that Paula was off. Pam had half hoped she'd been imagining everything but now with Kylie's furrowed brow came proof.

"All right," Pam said. "I know what to do. Don't worry, just go back to work."

Paula didn't appear to the rest of her staff until late into the evening. Pam had sent Carol the office manager home and Kylie was packing up her briefcase with her phone on her shoulder. Paula could tell by body language and tone that Kylie was talking to Jeff, Paula's PR man.

"I don't know," Kylie said. "She didn't really give me a reason. She just said she didn't want to go. She doesn't want to go to anything, frankly."

Paula walked into the room and Kylie glanced up.

"Gotta go, Mom, I'll call you later," she said and snapped the phone closed hastily. "My mom," she said, guiltily.

"I'm sure," Paula said. "You're here awfully late."

"I was just leaving," Kylie said. "See you in the morning." Paula watched her flee.

"Her mom my ass," Paula said, passing Pam and opening the refrigerator. "You want to stay for dinner?"

"No thank you," Pam said, politely. "Unless you want the company."

"No," Paula said, beginning to pull things out of the refrigerator. "No, I'm perfectly happy being alone."

"All right," Pam said, softly. "Call me if you need anything."

Paula nodded absently and went about making her meal of vegetables while Pam quietly exited the house.

In the morning, Paula didn't let herself sleep in too late. All of her work was from the house for the day. Radio interviews and meetings via the telephone. She even brewed a pot of coffee instead of making her morning trip to Starbucks. She'd almost gone. She'd gotten dressed and was sitting in the driver's seat of her Mercedes but something had stopped her from turning the key in the ignition. She'd caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and the giant sunglasses didn't cover enough of her face. She was too recognizable and she knew she didn't have it in her to face photographers this morning. In a week, she didn't want to flip open a magazine and see a picture of herself with the caption 'They're just like us!' or 'American Idol's sloppiest judge' or something equally humiliating. No, she would stay home.

She drank her coffee and did her radio interviews with a dog in her lap. When that was done, she changed into her bathing suit intent on doing laps. The suit was a simple black two-piece, more sporty than sexy. It would stay in place no matter how hard she swam. Outside, the day had already begun to heat up. Still, when she jumped into the pool, the water was surprisingly chilled. In the height of summer, it got so hot that heating the pool was totally unnecessary and she never swam in the winter so she never bothered to turn the heater on. Now though, she tread water furiously trying to get used to the water quickly.

And, as she did so, her muscles screamed in protest. She'd been working out hard for days on end now, not allowing her body any rest and her body was now letting her know. She started swimming, intent on pushing through the pain. Pain was good, pain meant being in shape and getting stronger. If she really was going to do any sort of touring next year, she needed to be much stronger than she was now.

Half an hour later, her arms felt wobbly but she kept swimming. The end of the pool felt further and further away at each lap. Maybe she would take a rest at the ledge and try to catch her breath when she got there. She turned her head, bringing her face out of the water to suck in some air and saw, suddenly, the shape of a man standing at the edge of her pool.

Frightened and startled she sucked in a lungful of water instead of air and started to cough. But while she coughed, she thrashed reaching out for a ledge that wasn't there, unable to keep herself up out of the water while coughing, trying to get the water from her lungs. She kept sinking, further down into the water, getting more water instead of the air she so desperately needed. Her fingers kept reaching, trying to find a little stability as the chlorine burned her throat, her eyes, the inside of her nose and her already tender sinuses.

When she felt the arm around her midsection, she knew she could either struggle more or allow them to drag her out of the water. Death by drowning or rape – not exactly an easy choice. Still, she made split second decision to let the man pull her to safety. He was keeping her head above water anyway, allowing her to cough out water and bring in air. He was also swimming fast. She felt her shin bang into the concrete steps that led out of the pool. The man sat on the steps and pulled her into his lap, thumping hard on her back.

"It's all right," he said, his British accent thick. "I've got you. Just breathe."

Paula managed to look up from behind the curtain of wet, stringy hair that was currently surrounding her head and see a highly concerned expression on none other than Simon Cowell.

"Si?" she gasped before coughing more. He stopped hitting her back and instead rubbed the chilled skin.

"Of course," he said. She took a few, shaky breaths and when it didn't cause another fit she pushed her hair back and glared.

"You almost killed me!" she accused, her voice raspy but loud.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Are you kidding me? I saved you!"

"They only reason I got scared was because I thought you were some stranger coming to attack me!" she said. She realized she was still sitting on his lap in her pool and that he was fully dressed in jeans and a sweater as well as shoes. She looked at him, his wet hair and soggy clothes and suddenly realized that he was here. "Oh my god, Simon!" she gasped and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He chuckled.

"There's the reaction that should have come first," he said. "Sorry I gave you a fright."

"What are you doing here?" she said into his neck. She was already on the verge of tears. It had been a traumatic ten minutes.

"Come on," he said, not answering the question. "Let's get out of the pool." He lifted her off his lap and stood up, water gushing from his clothes when he stood. She looked at him in horror.

"You jumped in with everything on?" she asked. He climbed out of the pool and offered her a hand. She was so tired that when she left the water and stepped onto dry land, her knees buckled and he had to hold her up.

"How long were you in there?" he asked, curiously. "You're exhausted."

"I don't know," she said. He walked her over to the chairs on the patio and sat her down before pulling his sweater over his head and dropping it with a splat onto the concrete. He toed off his shoes. They were filled with water. Without the sweater on, she could see the bulge of his wallet in his pocket. "Oh, Simon, your wallet."

"And my passport," he said, pulling both the wallet and soggy passport out of his pocket and dropping them on the table. "And my phone," he said, sadly, pulling the now defunct device out of his pocket.

"And your watch," she whispered, looking at the expensive Rolex that surely no longer ticked. "Why did you do that?"

"You were dying," he said, exasperatedly. "It doesn't matter, they're just things." She reached for the towel that she'd brought for herself and handed it to him. He unbuttoned his jeans and eased them down his hips. She blushed and turned her head while he took the towel and wrapped it around his waist over his wet boxers.

"Thank you," she said, realizing she hadn't yet said that.

"Oh, anytime," he said sarcastically and turned to get a good look at her. "Good lord, you're skin and bones."

She wrapped her arms around herself, aware that she was as undressed as he'd ever seen her.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing here," she snapped.

"You weren't exactly banging down my door," he said. "It was supposed to be a week, not a month, Paula."

"Things... came up," she protested weakly.

"So it seems," he said. "Well, come on. Let's get you into something dry. I'm tired and hungry and now wet. Can we go inside?"

"Yes," she said. "Do you have something to...?" She motioned to the pile of wet clothes.

"Nope," he said. "I mean, at my house."

"I can put those in the dryer," she offered. "Help me wring them out."

They stood for a moment, getting the excess water out. He twisted the jeans and she let water gush down her legs as she twisted the sweater, pressing it against her stomach to get even more water out. When they were no longer dripping, he followed her into the house and to the laundry room. She threw the wet clothes into the dryer and looked at him shyly.

"What about your...?" She looked at the towel.

"Oh, ah," he said. "I'll just keep these if you don't mind."

"Sure," she said, quickly and started the machine. "I'm going to go change. I can probably find something for you to wear." He nodded and she rushed up the stairs, embarrassment burning her cheeks. She couldn't believe that Simon would just appear totally unprovoked and then rescue her like someone out of a fairytale. She probably wouldn't have been more surprised if he'd rode in on a white horse. She grabbed a towel to dry her hair with and quickly stripped off the wet suit. She rubbed the towel over herself briskly and slipped into clean underwear. She surveyed her closet, pulling down soft pants and a t-shirt for herself. Now for Simon. There had to be something for him.

She spied a white t-shirt and realized that it had, at one time, been his. She'd snatched it a couple years ago out of his dressing room, before he'd gotten the trailer, on a finale night when he was going to London and she wasn't going to see him for three months. She wore it to bed sometimes. She took it from the shelf hoping he wouldn't recognize it. She also had a pair of track pants that used to belong to Colt that had never been returned in the break up. Maybe he wouldn't ask about those. She put on her clothes and brushed out her hair before returning downstairs with the clothes for him.

She handed them to him and he smiled, and disappeared into the bathroom without a word. While he was changing, she brought his soggy personal effects into the kitchen and laid them all out on a towel to dry on the kitchen counter. She was taking his phone apart when he came out.

"Leave it," he said. "It's a goner."

"I'm sorry," she said again, setting the phone down. "I'll buy you a new one."

"No," he said. "You won't."

"Okay," she said. "Pants fit all right?"

"Yes," he said. "So does the shirt, which stands to reason since I believe it is mine." She shrugged.

"Possession is nine tenths of the law, you know," she said.

"It smells like you, though," he said, sniffing the shoulder.

"I've had it for a while," she admitted. "I stole it like a common criminal."

"Guess you're not the sweetheart America thinks you are," he teased. "I brought lunch," he said, changing the subject. She hadn't noticed the paper bag sitting on the kitchen table until he walked over to it. "Deli sandwiches from that place that Ryan likes."

"I'm not eating carbs," she said.

"What? I went through the embarrassment of ordering a purely vegetarian sandwich in a deli and you say you aren't going to eat it?" he said.

"I'm on this new diet," she explained.

"Is your final goal death?" he asked, pulling out the sandwich and setting it in front of her. "Because you're tiny enough as it is. When I use the phrase 'you could use a sandwich,' I mean that quite literally."

"God, Simon," she said. "It's not on my diet. Deal."

"Eat the sandwich, Paula," he ordered, pulling the paper off of it for her.

"No," she said, crossing her arms. He sighed.

"I didn't want to have to do this," he said.

"Then don't."

"Paula, I bet you won't eat that sandwich."

She narrowed her eyes.

"You bastard," she seethed. "I hate you."

"Not the first time you've said that to me, sweetheart," he said, pulling out his own sandwich. She looked at him and the sandwich and back at him. She was about to throw the game out the window when she remembered some of the things she planned on putting him through should he ever lose the game. Sighing, she picked up half of the sandwich.

"You're an asshole," she mumbled and took a bite.

"Look, I didn't fly all night and come straight here just to save your life and have you call me names," he said.

"Then why DID you fly here?" she asked.

"Because I was worried about you," he said. "Because apparently you've been going off your rocker and now even getting you to eat something is like pulling teeth."

"Oh, I see," she said. "You think I'm holed up my house with my fingers down my throat, pining for you."

"Are you?" he asked.

"No!" she said. "And fuck you for asking."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Simon said, holding up his hands. Half of his roast beef sandwich hung from one hand. "I know you Paula, and you never shy away from anything. You burn brightly and loudly and openly and so when I get a call telling me that you've been hiding and that something is wrong, I'm going to drop everything to come see you and I'll ask whatever the hell I want to ask."

She stared at him. He almost never yelled at her, seriously shouted in real anger.

"Someone called you?" she asked. "Who?"

"It doesn't matter," he said, setting the sandwich down before it came apart all over the table.

"It matters to me," she said, her voice small.

"Please," he said. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"I'm eating," she said, picking up the sandwich. She really had missed bread. "Don't worry about that." She took a big bite and chewed slowly, a little too thoroughly before swallowing. He watched her.

"I think we both know the difference between eating disorders and image disorders is a fine line," he said.

"Do not," she said, her voice low and even. "Do not psychoanalyze me."

"I just want to help you," he argued. "I just want you to come to London like we planned."

She had to eat the entire sandwich so she did. They sat at the table and ate their sandwiches, bite by bite, in a thick, hostile silence. When Paula had swallowed the last bite and fulfilled her end of the bet, she sighed and crumpled up the deli paper into a ball in her fist.

"Occasionally," she said, squeezing the ball of paper so hard that it started to bite into her hand painfully. "I lose sight of the bigger picture."

"Okay," he said, clearly not knowing what that meant.

"I mean, I get a little lost in my own head, you know? Idol is over and you were gone and I thought, now would be a good time to, I don't know," she shrugged. "Get back into shape or something."

"But you were never out of shape," he said.

"I'm not strong enough right now to tour," she said. "To dance that hard night after night."

"I didn't know you were planning a tour," he said.

"I'm not," she said. "Well, I haven't even finished the album. I don't know what's ahead."

"I see," he said. "Well, here's the thing. I have to go back to London in a couple of hours."

"So soon?" she said, her face falling.

"I really want you to go with me."

"Now?" she asked. "I don't know, Simon."

"If not now, when?" he asked, disappointment already creeping into his voice. "You've been turning down invitations to everything. If you can hide away in your house, you can hide away in mine."

"I just," she dropped the ball of paper and it rolled across the table for a moment. "I don't know what's wrong with me all of a sudden."

"You need a vacation."

"I know," she said. "I just feel guilty picking up and taking off when there's so much work I could be doing."

"So, make it out of your control," he said.

"What?"

"Use the game," he ordered.

"Oh," she said thoughtfully. "Can I do that?"

"It's our game. You can do whatever you want."

"Okay," she said. "Simon, I bet you won't take me to London."

"I bet I will," he said softly, with a small smile.


	4. Chapter 4

They spent the rest of the day together and stayed up all night. They caught up on what had been happening, really happening in their lives since they'd been apart. The things they had forgotten to say over the phone and the things they hadn't had the courage to say over the phone. Dinner was Chinese takeout that they ate in the upstairs den in front of the TV. Paula was stretched out on the floor with a big pillow beneath her head and Simon took up the majority of the sofa. He was watching her navigate pieces of vegetables into her mouth with chopsticks. She was defying gravity, practically, but she didn't drip a single drop of sauce or grain of rice onto her shirt. He was fascinated.

If he thought about it, he'd realize that he'd never really seen her spill anything. Which was amazing, considering how klutzy she could be. But, it was a conversation for another day.

"No one knows I'm here," Simon admitted, full of food and drowsy. The light from the TV lit the room just enough to see her. "It's brilliant."

"I have you all to myself," she murmured. They were watching the marathon of Family Guy on TBS with the sound on low. They were only half paying attention. Simon was tired – jet lagged from flying through the night and sleeping poorly on the plane, private or not. Every once in a while Paula would giggle at something on the screen and startle him for he had already forgotten that it was on.

Finally, Simon turned off the television before they got sucked into another mindless episode and looked at her. She got up and they cleaned up their mess from dinner. She ate two meals with him, only one of them begrudgingly, and it was a good sign. He'd lay off her for a while on that front.

Around 11, she realized that she'd have to pack something. While she was packing, she realized she'd have to tell her people she was disappearing.

"It's too late to call anyone now," she fretted while Simon struggled to get her big suitcase down from a high shelf.

"You're the boss," he grunted, pulling the case down and letting it go, red-faced and impatient. "Call them."

"I could leave a note," she said.

"I'll call them," Simon offered. "I'll say that I'm kidnapping you and that should they try to rescue you, shots will be fired."

"Oh yeah," Paula said. "That's definitely the best way to do it."

"Well those are your options," he said. She scrunched up her nose at him and picked up her phone.

"I know Jeff won't answer this late. I can just leave him a message and by the time he gets it, I'll be on the plane," she reasoned.

"That's bravery right there," he teased. She left the room to make the call and Simon looked around and realized he'd never been alone in her bedroom before. He had a nearly overwhelming urge to find her lingerie drawer but even he knew that was wrong. Still, she probably had a pretty good collection. When she came back in, she looked satisfied.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I just, you know, told him," she said. "I didn't ask if it work, I just said I was going."

"Good!" he exclaimed. He'd seen Paula deal with her people before. She would ask Pam if something could be worked into her schedule and Pam would usually say no instead of Paula merely informing Pam of the changes and leaving her assistant to make it work. Paula felt Simon was too hard on his staff, but he was the one who got things done and did everything he wanted to do.

By the time they were ready to go to the airport, they were both dead on their feet. Simon had spent the last hour sprawled across Paula's bed watching her at the vanity. He'd never really watched her get made up from start to finish and it was only because he was so tired that he found it completely captivating. He had seen her give herself touch ups but he'd never seen her do her own face completely – always a make-up artists hovering about. The finished product, he thought, was quite good but he knew it helped that she was already beautiful, no matter what was or was not on her face.

Paula hadn't thought about a car, but when it was time to go, one arrived to get them with no fuss and little fanfare. It wasn't yet 5:00am and even the paparazzi had to sleep sometime. It was always the wee hours, in the grey early morning that celebrities got away with things.

Paula had been in Simon's private plane before. They often took it on the road for Idol auditions or if the three of them had to go to New York for publicity. Once, she'd gone with him and Terri to St. Louis for a day and a half because Terri had an interview with Extra and Simon hadn't wanted to be bored. They'd gone to an expensive meal and played cards most of the day, actually. It had been fun.

The plane was clean and the engines began to rumble as soon as they set foot on it. Simon was deliriously tired but knew he couldn't fall asleep just yet. Paula, however, had collapsed into a soft, leather seat and was already halfway asleep.

"Paula," he said. "Go sleep in the bed."

"It's your plane," she murmured. "You sleep in the bed. I'm fine here."

"I can't sleep," he said, tugging on her forearm to get her to her feet. "Go on. You may as well be comfortable."

"But what if you get tired?" she asked, already looking longingly at the soft bed in the back of the plane.

"Then I'll just join you," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She rolled her eyes but they both knew he wasn't kidding. She shut the door behind her nearly all the way but the sliver left open showed him that he was, despite her rolling eyes, welcome should he choose.

He made it two hours. He drank a few beers and made a few phone calls and even went over some paperwork before he lost his second (or was it fourth?) wind and his eyes decided they would close whether they had his permission or not. When he opened the door to the bedroom compartment, it was darker than he expected. She'd pulled the covers to the windows down and while he could make out the bump of her under the white comforter, he had to tread lightly to get to the edge of the bed without bumping into anything. He sat on the edge of the bed and toed off his shoes.

It was a large bed; he'd made sure of it when he'd purchased the plane. There was nothing worse than being cramped on an airplane. Terri had been a fitful sleeper anyhow – always tossing and turning and muttering nonsense in her sleep. It was best if there was a lot of room between them. He wished he could have known how true that would turn out to be.

He got into the bed and she didn't even stir. For as dark as it was, quiet it was not. The engines were louder in here, for some reason, but he'd gotten used to tuning them out over the years. The pillow was soft beneath his head and it was easy to drift off into some much needed sleep.

Simon woke up with the distinct feeling that someone was watching him. It took a lot of effort to peel open his eyes but he did only to see the darkness of the room. He rubbed his face and turned his head, his warm cheek searching instinctively for a cooler part of the pillow. He saw warm brown eyes watching him intently. He'd forgotten he wasn't alone.

"Hi," he said.

"I can't sleep anymore," she whispered, as if they needed, for some reason, to be quiet.

"It's only been a couple hours," he said, a note of pleading in his voice. He'd sleep the rest of the flight if she'd let him, and then maybe a couple hours more when they got home.

"I know," she said. "My body clock is off now."

"Jet-lag only works when you actually arrive somewhere," he said, closing his eyes again.

"It's the all nighter," she said. "I'm too old to be doing that."

"You aren't old," he said.

"Don't you feel restless?" she asked.

"I feel sleepy," he said. "And I bet if you just lay there and stay very still you'd go back to sleep too."

"You bet me?" she asked, wickedly.

"Oh, shit, no, I didn't mean it like that, it's just a figure of speech!"

"Ha, ha," she taunted. She reached out and pulled up one of the blinds, allowing sunlight to hit him squarely in the face. "We're waking up now!"

"Damn it," he said.

"Come on," she said, crawling out of the bed. When she stood on the carpet, he realized she was barefoot and shorter than normal. How was he letting this tiny thing boss him around? It didn't seem right and yet she always seemed to snap her fingers and get what she wanted out of him. "I bet there's coffee on here somewhere."

"I didn't staff an attendant, as you may have noticed," he grumbled.

"I think between the two of us and the pilot we can manage to make a pot of coffee," she said.

"You're not to bother the pilot," he snapped.

"My, we're grumpy," she said and moved through the main part of the plane to the galley where the supplies were. The truth of the matter was he was just being petulant. She'd been on the plane before and knew how to make the coffee just from watching it being done so many times. He stumbled from the bed into one of the seats and watched her fuss around – fitting the filter and complaining under her breath about ground coffee versus the fresh beans she preferred.

"Will you spike mine?" he called.

"No," she said, looking meaningfully at the empty beer bottles in the trashcan.

"Just because you're sober Sally doesn't mean the rest of us has to be," he whined.

"I brought a deck of cards," she said, trying to change the subject. She came and sat across from him while the coffee brewed. "Something to keep us occupied."

"We could put on a movie," he suggested.

"You'll just sleep through whatever it is," she said.

"Yes."

"I want you to talk to me!"

"My God, woman, we've been talking for about 24 hours straight. A man needs his beauty rest," he said. He patted the seat next to him and pulled up the arm that separated the seats. "Come on."

"Oh, fine," she said. "I'll put one on." She hopped up and he wondered not for the first or last time where that energy came from. Sometimes she was just as tired as the rest of them, and sometimes she was so happy and free that it was like she was a different person. She knew where the movies were kept. He had a paltry collection – he was a music man, after all. It was Paula who had the sprawling movie collection and it was Paula who was frowning at her options now. She ran her finger along the short row of titles, back and forth, finally pausing at one.

"Which one?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Why do you have Finding Nemo?" she asked.

"That is a very good movie, I'll have you know," he said defensively.

"I know," she said. "Just didn't peg you for the animated type." She pulled the movie out and loaded it into the DVD player. The screen came alive.

"And here I thought you knew everything about me," he said.

"Hardly."

"You know more than most," he promised. This brought a smile to her face and she grabbed the remote and settled down beside him once more.

Of course, she was asleep before he was, her pot of coffee long forgotten. He rolled his eyes. She had dragged them out of bed and into this situation as a buzzing ball of energy and once he complied she crashed on his shoulder. Her face was pressed firmly into his arm. She'd covered them with a light blanket to ward off the chill of the recycled airplane air and she was burrowed beneath it, her breathing steady and deep.

At least if she was asleep, she wouldn't scold him for doing the same. He let his eyes drift out of focus and close. The last thing he saw was the deep blue of the ocean.

When he woke up he was alone. He noticed that right away. He was lying across his seat and the seat Paula had occupied. The blanket was on the floor, having slid off of him at some point. The TV was off and the cabin was quiet. He glanced at his watch and noted that it had been hours. They ought to be landing soon. Looking around him, Paula wasn't to be found. He got up, his muscles aching from being in such a cramped position. He looked in the back compartment, but the bed was empty though still rumpled from their previous use. His next thought was the bathroom but the door was collapsed slightly and the door read 'unoccupied.' He pushed in the door just in case, but the room was empty and dark.

He walked up to the front of the plane to see if she'd been in the galley and he'd just missed her somehow but the prep area was empty as well. It was a small plane. Where was she?

Either she'd found the emergency access port down to the cargo hold or she was in the cockpit. He knocked rapidly on the door to the cockpit and waited. The door swung open to reveal Paula's smiling face.

"Hi sleepyhead," she said.

"I thought you weren't going to disturb the pilot," he said.

"Oh Jack?" she said, glancing over her shoulder at the pilot who smiled up at her. "He was just giving me a few pointers." Jack was not the usual pilot he got to staff his plane. His usual pilot was Barry, a gruff man in his late sixties who appreciated the steady paycheck and the ability to not have to work for a major airline. He and Simon had a professionally distant and quiet relationship. But Barry was on vacation and so he'd sent Jack in his stead. Jack was no more than in his mid-thirties and had a chiseled jawline and looked disgustingly dashing in his navy captain's uniform. Simon didn't trust him.

"Pointers," Simon muttered.

"He said I could land the plane, if I wanted," Paula said, thoughtfully.

"Absolutely not," Simon said.

"It's perfectly safe, Mr. Cowell. I'd be here the whole time," Jack said in a helpful tone.

"Miss Abdul can't walk across a level, flat surface without falling on her face half the time. I do not want her landing my airplane," Simon snapped. Paula was in too good of a mood to be waylaid by Simon's crabbiness and merely stuck out her tongue at Simon.

"Another time, Captain," Paula said sweetly.

"Any time, Miss Abdul," he said. Simon waited for Paula to walk back into the main cabin and then forcefully shut the door behind them.

"He was nice," Paula said. "Cute, too."

"He was a baby," Simon muttered, opening the small refrigeration unit looking for a bottle of water. Flying always made him feel dehydrated.

"Jealous?" Paula asked, settling herself down into the seat by the window.

"Just who are you on vacation with? Me or my pilot?" Simon snapped.

"Don't be sore," she chided. "I was bored and wanted to let you sleep."

"Hmph," he said, cracking the seal on his water and downing half of the small bottle in a few seconds.

"You're the only man for me," she said, looking at him steadily. It was the kind of thing she said usually with that teasing lilt in her voice but she had an air of seriousness about her now that made the bottom of his stomach fall out a little.

"I know," he said, trying for cocky but he was afraid it came out sounding mostly confused. He sat next to her and offered her the rest of the bottle. She took it and drank a small sip – mostly to accept the peace offering. She'd left a ring of coral colored lipstick around the rim and he watched her thoughtfully wipe it off. Still, there was a streak of color but he didn't mind.

"Simon?"

"What?" he asked.

"Do you think we'll still be friends a long time from now?" she asked.

"You mean, like, next year?" he asked.

"I mean when we're old," she said. "When we're gray and no one cares about us anymore."

"Oh, you mean forever," he said. "Yes, I think we will."

"How do you know?" she asked. He considered her question, his thumb worrying at the damp label on the plastic bottle.

"Because," he said, after a moment, "When I try to imagine the future, you're always there."

"Oh," she breathed, surprise knocking the wind from her. "Simon?"

"Hmm."

"Thanks for rescuing me," she said. He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her temple.

"Anytime, darling. All you have to do is call," he said. "Or don't call. I'll probably still come."

"Good," she said. Suddenly, the air in the cabin changed. They had started their descent. He knew this part of the flight made her a little nervous and when he glanced at her hands, her knuckles were white against the armrests.

"What do you want to do in London?" he asked, trying to distract her with conversation.

"I don't know," she said, her voice a little thin. "You'll have to start auditioning right? Travel?"

"Yes, but not for over a week," he said. "And even then, you're always allowed to tag along."

"Tag along?" she said. "I'm not your groupie."

"Not like that," he amending. "You could even be on the show again."

"Ah yes," she said, sourly. "So I can watch Danii flirt with you."

He chuckled.

"Jealous?" he parroted.

"Shut up."

"We're just playing it up for the cameras. You know that, we do it too," he said. She looked at him sharply.

"So you're saying your relationship to Danii is on par with your relationship with me?" Paula asked demandingly.

"Never in a million years would I compare you to her," Simon said. "She is a colleague. You are a friend. But you and I both know what kind of chemistry brings in viewers." Paula slumped a little in her seat.

"I know," she said. "It's just odd to remember you judge with other people. Randy and I just have Idol but you do it all year."

"Dreadful, isn't it?" he said conspiratorially.

"I think it must be," she said honestly. She glanced out the window and was startled to see that land was fast approaching.

"Hold on," he said quietly. "Just about there." He took her hand and laced their fingers together. She held on tightly enough that it was almost painful and held her breath until the wheels touched pavement. She opened her eyes and looked down at their entwined hands. She smiled softly and extricated her fingers from his.

"Safe and sound," she said, trying to make it seem as if she'd been the brave one.

"Welcome to Heathrow," he said.

He'd parked a car at the airport so he could drive them himself. He'd only been away from the country for a matter of hours, though it seemed like longer. So much had happened after all – jumping into the pool to drag a gasping and choking Paula to safety seemed like it could have happened weeks ago. In reality, he hadn't even changed his clothes. He was wearing the same outfit that came out of her dryer smelling faintly of chlorine. His shoes were even still slightly damp. He'd traded that pair in, at least, with a pair from the comically small closet in the bedroom of the plane. Wet shoes were a curse he'd wish on no one.

He managed to get her suitcase into the small boot of his car. She was standing by the door tiredly.

"You want to drive?" he asked with a smirk. She looked down at the car and realized she was standing on the wrong side – where the passenger's side was in America.

"Whoops," she said, and walked around the front of the car. "I have trouble getting used to this."

Simon unlocked the doors with the remote on his keys and they both climbed in. The car started with a purr and he backed swiftly out of the space.

"In less than an hour we'll be home," he said.

"Good," she said. He noticed she was looking the wrong way out of the driveway of the parking garage, checking for oncoming traffic that would never come. And then, realizing her mistake, her head whipped the other way and she smiled when she saw that he'd caught her mistake as well. "I guess I could use a nap and a shower."

"Shower, yes," he said. "Nap, no. It's really best if you try to adjust right away."

"You too," she said.

"Well, technically, I never really got off London time."

"Oh," she said. "Well you'll have to do something to keep me awake."

"Deal," he said. He could tell she was tired. She probably hadn't slept as long as he had and she was a notoriously poor sleeper anyhow. The weeks of poor eating and over-exercise had made her body unpredictable. Her energy levels peaked and dropped with alarming frequency. A couple days of solid meals and sleep would help her.

"We could go out to a fancy dinner," he suggested. "Show the world that you've arrived."

"The paparazzi here don't care about me," she commented.

"They care about me," he said. "And when they see us together, they'll care about you."

"Wasn't the whole point of coming here to escape them?" Paula mused.

"No, it was to be with me," he said.

"Ah," she said.

When they turned onto his street, she could already see light bulbs flashing.

"They camp out on your street?" she asked.

"Twenty-four seven," he said.

"You know, I could always get a hotel room," she said.

"No," he said. "This was the plan. We're sticking with the plan."

"I don't know," she groaned.

"I bet you won't stay with me the whole time you're in London," he said, smugly.

She sighed loudly.

"I bet you won't kiss my ass," she muttered. He stared at her. "What?"

"You know that means I have to really do it, right?" he said. She laughed.

"I guess it does," she said. "I won't make you do it in front of the cameras."

"You'd be sleeping in the backyard for that," he said. They pulled into the garage – Paula put her hands over her face while the photographers tried to get shots inside of the car. She didn't relax until the door came down behind them. She let him get the suitcase out and wrangle it inside. London was far from warm – grey clouds had littered the sky the entire drive home and the brisk wind smelled of rain. It was a far cry from the overwhelming heat of Los Angeles and when they got inside, it was cold still.

Paula was under dressed. Simon noticed her shiver.

"Why don't you take that shower now?" he asked. "Help you get used to the change?"

"Okay," she said.

"Go on up, I'll bring your luggage in a moment," he said. She nodded and started up the stairs, knowing the way to the guest room where she would stay for however long she stayed in London. "Paula?" he called. She was a few steps up and paused, glancing over her shoulder. He reached out and put a steadying hand on each hip before swiftly leaning in and placing a quick peck right in the center of her right butt cheek. She gasped, surprised. He winked.

"Can't let you win now, can I?" he asked.

"You're a dangerous man," she said starting up the stairs again.

"You know it baby," he said, watching her go.


	5. Chapter 5

London, it turned out, was never warm. Paula had packed warm clothes, but not enough. When they stayed in the house, she wore his socks and his sweaters. She had to roll up the sleeves in order to free her hands and he liked the way the neck slipped down over one shoulder, giving him a little peek of golden skin and sometimes a bra strap or the opaque lace of a camisole. The first day in London, they stayed in. They ate food in his kitchen and she checked her e-mails and called her dad and her sister. Every so often, the calendar in her phone would beep.

"Right now I should be meeting Kylie for a wardrobe fitting," she would say. Another beep.

"Right now I should be having lunch with Jimmy. Hope he checked his e-mail and saw that I'm not coming," she said, wistfully. On the third beep he held up his hand.

"The only thing you ought to be doing is sitting here with me," he ordered. The phone rang too, of course, but she was strangely reluctant to answer. She would let it ring through or sometimes sent it quickly to voicemail and then would stare at the device waiting for the message to come. When it did, she'd listen to it silently, her straight white teeth worrying her bottom lip absently. She never told him what she heard and called no one back that first day.

She'd let her hair dry in the damp air and it curled rather wildly around her face. He'd forgotten how curly it was – she almost always blew it out and then tamed it with a curling iron. He was having trouble keeping his hands out of it. He never saw her when she wasn't well put together and excessively coiffed. He wanted to savor this time.

"Surely you have work to do as well?" she asked, finally, after they finished lunch.

"Nothing that can't be put off until tomorrow," he promised. "I'm sorry it's raining, though. Makes a day off rather dreary instead of a relief."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, walking to one of the windows that faced the enclosed backyard. She pushed the drapery aside and peered out through the wet glass. "It seems appropriate."

"Yes, well, as a resident of this city, let me assure you that the novelty wears off," he said.

"I don't disagree with that," she murmured, letting the cloth cover the window once more. She turned to him and forced a smile. "Let's do something."

"What would you like to do?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Go to a museum? Visit a park? Ride the Eye?"

"I am not riding that bloody wheel of death," he said. "And it's a little wet outside for a park."

"Don't you like art?" she asked, noting that his walls were pretty barren. There were a few photographs and some generic prints but nothing original, nothing exceptional or breathtaking.

"As much as the next bloke, I guess," he said, uneasily.

"I love art," Paula said, finally settling down onto the sofa next to him. He was relieved; when he could get her talking, keep her mind occupied, her body finally settled into one place. "Emilio used to love art too. We spent way too much money on art." She made a face. "Actually I always felt pretty bad that he practically went bankrupt while American Idol was making me a millionaire several times over."

"So cut him a check," Simon said.

"Simon!" she exclaimed. "That would be so... insulting!"

"There is no dignity in being poor," he said.

"There's plenty of dignity in being poor," she snapped. "Which you ought to know. Neither of us came from money."

"Which is why I know how horrifying poverty is."

"Horrifying and undignified or not the same thing," she argued. "There is plenty of dignity in working hard and making ends meet. There is plenty of dignity giving up a high paying job to do something you love like write a screenplay."

"Paula," he said.

"We sit behind a glass table with monitors and microphones. My wardrobe budget for a single season is one million dollars and if I go over that no one says a goddamn thing. Once a year we take one day or one week to go look at real poverty with a camcorder and a private jet and by the next week we're back on set, trying to pretend that Ford cars are important and that America can't live without Coca-Cola!"

He stared at her surprised that such an impassioned and well articulated rant was coming through her lips.

"We're the ones without dignity, Simon," she said, sadly.

"I'll take you to the National Gallery tomorrow," he said, his voice even and calm. "Have you been?"

"Not for years," she said, allowing him to change the subject. She wanted to let her disappointment and anger from the last few moments go. She wanted the only Simon and Paula back, the giggling and flirting friends, high off their wealthy escape to a foreign town. Reality had come awfully close to ruining their vacation.

"I'll make a call," he said. "Get us the V.I.P. tour and keep us out of sight of the population. Would you like that?"

"Yes," she said. "Though we won't get through Trafalgar Square without attracting some attention."

"Is it that you don't want the press to know you're in London or that you don't want them to know you're with me?" he asked. She rolled her eyes.

"I just happen to know that the Mirror isn't exactly truthful in their reporting. If I read we went to a museum, fine, but if I read we're having a love child and naming it Trafalgar, it isn't okay!"

"Why are you so feisty right now?" he asked.

"Why are you so complacent?" she shot back.

"I didn't know being happy to spend time with you in public was complacency!"

"Ugh," Paula said, standing up. "I always forget that 36 hours is our breaking point."

"What?"

"Haven't you ever noticed that? We've never gone more than 36 hours together without it ending in some huge fight," she said. "I don't know why I thought we could do this. Already it's failing."

"Failing?" he laughed. "This isn't an argument, it's a discussion."

"A loud one," she muttered but he heard her quite clearly.

"Did you know," he started conversationally, as if about to start an anecdote about something trivial, "that Terri and I never fought?"

"We're talking about Terri now?" she asked.

"We almost never argued," he said. "Not once. Any time I even started to raise my voice, she just gave in. She said she hated to fight. She was so non-confrontational."

"Must've been nice," Paula said.

"Nice?" he exclaimed. "It drove me absolutely mad!"

"Why?"

"After six years, I can tell you I'm itching for a good fight. Nothing makes your blood run like fighting."

"I don't understand how someone can like fighting," she said.

"It's not the fighting I like – well," he amended. "It's not the best part. It's the making up that's so great."

She stared at him blankly.

"You've never had hot make-up sex?" he asked bluntly.

"W-well, of course I have but I don't see what that has to do with you or me."

"I enjoy fighting with you," he said as diplomatically as he could. "It's part of the fun. Can you just humor me and fight back instead of running away?"

"We do have fun," she conceded after a bit.

"Good," he said. Had they been lovers, she might have leaned over to kiss him; might have learned what hot make-up sex with Simon was all about but instead she patted his hand. "Lord, your fingers are like ice," he exclaimed.

"It's cold."

"It's 50 degrees."

"That's cold," she assured him.

"You ought to be happy it's raining other wise it'd be even colder," he said. "But I'll turn on the heat."

Simon's house was big. It wasn't the sprawling mansions that people got away with in Los Angeles but for London it was decadent. There was a backyard, a two-car garage, and three stories. The tall windows let in the light and gave it an airy feel even though it was narrow. While Simon was setting the heat, his phone rang. She heard him get lost in the conversation, his voice becoming distant as he went down the hall to his office and even harder to hear when the door closed.

She'd been to his house before, of course, but never for an extended stay and never without Terri. She'd seen the common areas and the guest room but if Simon closed the door, he was probably going to be a while. She decided to poke around a bit. Up the stairs, it didn't take long to find exactly what was going to keep her occupied on such a rainy, endless afternoon.

The weight room. There were weights, of course, as well as her personal favorite, the treadmill. She tiptoed to her room to change her clothes and then went back to the weight room, running her hand lovingly along the black, gleaming handle.

"Hello, Lover," she whispered. She'd changed into her heavy-duty sports bra and a pair of sweats. It was still cold, shirtless but she knew she'd warm up once she started running. She heard the heater kick on and she smiled. Warm and sweaty, that's what she needed. She knew Simon would find her eventually and she thought about putting on a shirt but she realized she'd worn less on national television so a modest sports bra would have to do.

She'd been running only fifteen minutes when he found her, frowning, his mobile still in his hand.

"I turn my back for five minutes and look how you repay me," he said.

"Five minutes?" she said, her voice coming out hard and breathless.

"Okay, you know what I mean."

"I was bored," she said.

"You're an exercise junkie," he accused.

"Drat," she said sarcastically. "Guess I'll go back to heroin."

She hadn't bothered to turn on the light. There was light coming in from the tall windows, but it was grey and patchy so he reached over and flipped the switch for the florescent lights above.

There was a loud bang and then the lights failed complete.

"Umph." Paula had been running hard when the treadmill stopped and had run right into the front of the machine, the metal and plastic panel catching her right in the ribs. "Ow," she gasped, trying to jump off the machine and hold her torso and not fall all at the same time. "Son of a bitch."

"Are you okay?" Simon asked, coming over to her. She just groaned.

"What happened?" she asked after a bit. She stood up experimentally, straightened her spine and winced. She would be sore.

"Sounded like I blew a transformer," he said. The lights flickered for a moment, struggling to come on but then gave up the flight. "Probably the heating system," he reasoned. "That's given me trouble since the day this place was built."

"So this is my fault," she said.

"Hey," he said. "I turned on the light that pushed it over."

"I think I bruised a rib," she said, twisting slightly and whimpering.

"Is that your medical opinion?" he asked.

"I'm a dancer, you jackass. You think I don't know what a bruised rib feels like?"

"Sorry," he held up a hand. "Come on."

They went downstairs and he peered out the window. The rain had driven the majority of the photographers away though there were still a few intrepid souls in slickers with plastic over their cameras. What a crazy world he lived in.

"I'm going to go out and see what happened," he said. "Stay here." A part of her wanted to balk at him ordering her to do anything but she wasn't going to go out into the rain where her picture would be taken in a sports bra, sweaty, make-up free, with a bruised rib so she stayed put. He went out and came back in a few minutes later.

"Well?" she asked.

"Yep," he said. "The box is smoking. The neighbors lost power too; we share the box."

"Maybe it was their fault," she suggested.

"That's the spirit," he said. "I'm sure the power company is already on their way."

"Maybe you ought to call just in case," she suggested. He looked at her critically, the way she was leaning against the way, favoring her side.

"Maybe we ought to take you to hospital," he said.

"No," she said. "I just need a Tylenol and to lie down."

"You sure?" he said.

"Yeah. Maybe some ice," she says.

"You can lay in my bed," he says decidedly.

"Um, okay?" she said.

"It's downstairs," he said. "No stairs." His sweetness was novel so she followed him into the master suite and watched him fluff the pillows and pull aside the comforter.

"I'm all sweaty," she said. "I can't lay in your bed."

"I have more sheets," he promised and so she got in and it did feel a little better, just being able to relax into the mattress. He disappeared to get her an ice pack and she wrapped it in a corner of the top sheet before pressing it gingerly into the side.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"It's going to get dark soon," he said.

"It's what happens when the Earth revolves around the sun," she said.

"I mean... what I'm trying to say is, we could go across town."

"What?"

"I have another house," he said.

"Oh, yeah. You lived there before you had this one built. I guess we could rough it," she said, making air quotes to show just how tough having a second house could be. For Simon, it was one of many, many properties. His taxes must've been astronomical every year.

"It's not... I mean...." He stalled.

"I'm sorry, are you trying to tell me something?" she asked. "Just spit it out like you always do."

"When Terri left, I let her move into the house," he said, finally. "Until she found a more suitable place here."

"Oh," Paula said. "You gave her a house in London and bought her a house in L.A."

"So?"

"So that is some serious guilt fueled gift giving," she said.

"I did lust after you for the majority of our relationship," Simon admitted, his eyebrows waggling. "I had to give her something."

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Terri is a close friend, no matter what happened in the past. I like helping her," he said, more seriously.

"You're a good man," she said. "But do I want to go stay at Terri's even know she won't be there? No."

"We could rent a hotel suite," he offered.

"We could just stay here," she said. "The lights will come on at some point in the night probably. I'm tired and sore. This is fine."

"All right, if you insist," he said.

"Maybe find some flashlights and candles before you lose the light?" she suggested.

"Their called torches here," he corrected before disappearing to do just that.

He was gone for a long time. Long enough that she took the ice pack off and left it on the rug by the bed so it didn't warp the wooden nightstand. Long enough that she pulled the blankets up over her, the warmth from exertion gone. Long enough for the light to wane. Long enough that she closed her eyes, willed her self to relax and was nearly asleep.

She heard him come in. Heard him set down a glass of water for her on the nightstand with a soft 'thunk.' She heard the flick of his lighter as he lit the candles he'd brought back with him and placed them.

"Are you sleeping?" he asked, quietly enough so that if she were, he wouldn't have woken her up.

"Only a little," she said. She heard him chuckle. She opened her eyes and breathed in, surprised. He'd set up a row of candles against the mirror over the dresser. The light reflected in the mirror and spread out across the room, overtaking the potential darkness.

"Will this do?" he asked.

"We can't leave the room. If you were gone for that long and all you came back with was six candles..."

"I'm not a candle person," he said. "Sorry."

"It's perfect," she said.

"I brought you six candles and some pain killers," he said. "Take some."

She sat up with some effort and managed to take the two pills and down them with water. She didn't bother mentioning to him that she was so immune to pain killers that she might as well have chucked them out the window for all the good they were going to do her but it was sweet that he'd brought them. She was the one who suggested taking them, if only to get him off her case. Nothing to do but wait out a bruised rib, after all.

"Thanks," she said.

"I'm going out to get dinner," he said. "Any requests?"

"Curry," she said, dreamily. "You can't get a decent curry outside of India or England."

"Any particular kind?" he asked, tucking his keys into his pocket.

"You know what I like," she said. He winked and left her alone again. But while he was gone, she grew restless. She stood, gingerly, to use his bathroom. Off the master suite, the bathroom was small compared to her bathroom in L.A. but it was impeccably clean. There was a narrow tub with a shower head and a clear shower curtain. Simon would be the type to want to be on display while he showered. The sink was pristinely white. She tugged open his drawer and found his razor, a tube of toothpaste, and a single toothbrush.

She felt relief wash over her and it took her a moment to realize why. One toothbrush equaled one occupant. Terri and Simon had both been honest about the break-up and it had been months since it had happened but this was proof. It was real. Simon was a single man. And being with Single Simon was like being with a new person. He was still Simon, her friend and co-worker and number one aggravator, but he was also much more chivalrous and flirty, which for Simon was saying something. He treated her how he wanted to without having to consider the feelings of another woman first.

She took a candle with her and braved the stairs. In the guestroom were her computer and her ipod. The batteries would last for a while, at least. Upstairs, she set the candle down and bent over to go through her suitcase but bending hurt and she winced. And then, standing up, she groaned and crawled to the bed.

When Simon found her, he was holding the bag of food in one hand and his lighter in the other.

"Bugger," he said, the flame burning his thumb and disappearing.

"Simon?"

"You scared the hell out of me," he said, walking over to her and picking up the candle she'd set down so carelessly far from where she'd landed. "What are you doing up here?"

"I thought I could... you know."

"I don't know."

"I came to get my ipod and then I couldn't..." she rolled her eyes. "I've been in chronic pain for ten years. I can't believe a bruised rib and am bedridden."

"You push yourself too hard," he said. "It's all right to rest. This is supposed to be a vacation."

"I know."

"Let me see your stomach," he ordered. She pulled up the t-shirt she'd slipped on and he held the candle up to her. There was an angry bruise – purple with splotchy red around the outside. "You hit yourself pretty good."

"How attractive on me," she said.

"Can you come back downstairs?" he asked.

"For a nice curry, I can do anything," she said. He helped her up and they went downstairs. Paula would have never let Simon eat dripping curry in her bed but he simply handed her a fork. They ate quietly, talked about inane things, and eventually ended up lying next to one another, staring at the ceiling, waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

"Somehow I always end up in bed with you," she joked.

"And yet, never in the way one might think," he said. "I can go to another room if you aren't comfortable."

"Why bother?" she said. "Just stay."

So he did. They dozed until the melted wax put out the flame of each candle, one by one and they were in total darkness. And when, in the dead of night, all the lights came back on it didn't wake her. Simon got up and turned everything off before coming back to bed and falling asleep to the sound of her steady breathing, the heat of her beneath the covers seeping into his skin.


	6. Chapter 6

"I bet you won't hurry up."

Simon's impatience no longer served as a threat to Paula. She was moving a little more slowly this morning than most but that was to be expected. Still, he couldn't stand it. He went into the room to see what was taking so long only to find Paula dabbing foundation onto the large, discolored bruise on her abdoman. She'd tucked the hem of her shirt into her bra and was using a triangular sponge he was pretty sure was meant for her face to cover up the evidence of her injury.

"This is fast," she mumbled, checking her work in the mirror with a critical eye.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he exclaimed. "That's insane."

"It's not," she said.

"No one sees under your shirt," he argued.

"It makes me feel better," she said. "Would you deny me that?"

"Yes!"

"Cruelty, thy name is Simon."

London, he thought, was getting to her. Maybe it was all the old buildings. Maybe it was the quaint accents or the fact that they were, in theory, going to the National Gallery today to look at very old art. But she was definitely acting more prissy and pompous than usual. He decided to take it with a grain of salt.

"You're the most irrational person I know," he said. A very small grain of salt, at any rate.

"Just let me be a little crazy today, okay?" she asked. "I'm feeling vulnerable."

"Why?" he asked. "You're beautiful and famous and with an extremely wealthy man."

"People are going to take my picture. What if my shirt rides up?" she asked.

"Then people will think I beat the crap out of you and I'll get the bad press," he said. "Paula. The car is waiting for us. The National Gallery is waiting for us."

"All right," she said, tugging her shirt into place. "I'm sorry, let's go."

Paula was used to riding in the back of cars. Even in her own cars, she rarely drove anymore. She preferred the anonymity of the backseat, being shielded by thick tinting on the windows. In the back of Simon's car, there was grey upholstery and the seats dipped low enough that her feet only touched the floor because her heels were high. Simon waited patiently for her to buckle her seatbelt before motioning for the driver to start the engine. It wasn't a limo – limousines were ostentatious and the whole goal of today was to have fun without having to worry about pushy and ruthless photographers. They would enter the gallery through a private entrance – they would have a discreet guide who led them through the cool rooms on a path diverted of other patrons.

Though the press surely knew where they were going today, they would be hard pressed to make a story out of it.

"I just want to stand in the presence of great beauty today," Paula said, looking dreamily out her window. The rain had stopped, for now, but everything still looked damp and the light was sorrowful at best. It was not the summer vacation she'd expected, at any rate. Still, Simon was next to her, his sunglasses doing a poor job of hiding his expression.

"A hall of mirrors, then?" he asked.

"I never know if you're mocking me or complimenting me," she complained.

"You're a half glass full kind of woman," he said. "Take it as a good thing."

The gallery was a cool relief to the weather outside. It was colder but the air was dry and felt a little more like home than anything else she'd found in England, except for Simon. She imagined she could be standing anywhere on Earth and feel at home as long as Simon was there, though she'd never admit this to him. His ego was large enough.

Simon clipped his VIP badge to the bottom hem of his sweater and then pinned hers to the lapel of her jacket without asking if she needed help. Bending was still hard for her, even though things had felt better after several hours of sleep. He didn't want her to have to struggle in front of the curator.

They met their guide but no real introductions were made. The guide wore a nametag, Leslie, and it was just assumed that she knew who they were – definitely Simon if not Paula.

Simon didn't care about exhibitions – he didn't care about Alison Watt in the Sunley room or Van Gogh's shapeless and hunched sunflowers hanging against a white wall. He didn't care for the Manet painting of the month – blurry men with guns – or Botticelli's Venus and Mars.

But Paula, for some reason, cared a lot. She cooed over every painting, standing an appropriate and respectful distance back but looking like she was just itching to run her finger over every lump of dried paint and every corner or each polished frame. Simon didn't go to Paula's house all that often, but he did manage to remember that there was art on the wall there – dark and looming paintings filled with milky white figures moving restlessly. Simon figured either you appreciated art or you didn't and that was fine. But Simon did appreciate beauty – he was standing next to Paula, after all.

"Did you know that Botticelli went to Rome to paint wall frescoes in the Sistine Chapel? It was the only work he did out of Florence," Paula said. "Isn't that fascinating? That such a great talent would be such a homebody?"

"Guess you can't say no to the pope," Simon murmured. She gave him a look that clearly meant no more or less than "Oh, Simon."

"Your grasp of history is lacking," she murmured moving on to the next painting. He stood next to her, checked his watch and shuffled his weight from foot to foot. Finally, she sighed and looked at him. "We can go."

"I didn't say I want to go," he defended.

"Not with your mouth," she said. "Anyway, I could stand to get off my feet and you're probably hungry."

This was something Paula did. She wasn't one to complain or demand that her needs be met. She would project instead, telling the people around her that they must be cold, hungry, or tired. He'd actually overheard her telling Jeff that his voice must be tired when she didn't want to take calls anymore, once. He'd laughed at the time, when he didn't know how to read her needs. When he didn't understand that Paula would work herself to the bone, given the opportunity.

"Yes, let's eat," he said. Their guide had the uncanny ability to disappear when she wasn't needed and then reappear the moment they'd made a choice about where to go next. As soon as it was decided to leave, Leslie was there with a bland smile, offering to arrange for their car to come around back and to let them know that they could wait in the administrative wing in the mean time.

Paula hid behind large sunglasses even when it was grey inside and, sometimes, even when they were inside a dark office.

"Did you have fun?" Simon asked, if only to fill the silence.

"Oh yes," Paula said, slinking closer to the landscape that was hung on the curator's wall, sliding her glasses down her nose so she could view the painting more closely. She always got this vacant expression – her lips parted just slightly and she was miles away.

Simon wanted to kiss her but her lipstick was dark today, somewhere between pink and red and to kiss her now would leave evidence on them both.

"I don't know this artist," she said, finally. There was no placard to go along with the painting like on the viewing floor. Perhaps it was in the curator's personal collection. "I wonder if he'd let me buy it."

"No, I'm sorry," the curator said smoothly, entering the room almost without noise. "That one is not for sale."

"Who is the artist?" Paula inquired politely.

"My daughter," he said. "Sentimental for me, you see."

"Tell her I think she's wonderful, would you?" Paula said.

"Yes Ma'am, I will. Your car is here."

In the car, she let Simon speak with the driver while she rested her head against the seat and let her eyes drift closed. As they wound through the city, he let his hand slide across the seat and touched hers. She opened her eyes just enough to glance at him.

"Are you being nice to me because I said we couldn't get along for more then a couple days?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Just checking."

"Since when are you the cynical one?" he asked, pulling his hand away. "What happened to sunshine and roses and colored auras?"

"I'm more than what you see on TV," she said. He huffed and crossed his arms, turning away from her. She felt bad, though. He was trying and she kept giving him a hard time, kept pushing him away. She scooted across the seat until she was next to him, their legs touching. "Simon?"

"You should really wear your seatbelt," he snapped. She put her head on his shoulder. He made a growling sound in the back of his throat – a warning.

"I bet you won't let me buy you lunch," she said.

"Fine," he said. "But I don't need your money."

"It's a gesture," she said. "Rest easy knowing your bank account dwarfs mine." This did make him feel better so he lifted his arm and fit it snugly over her shoulders. She relaxed into his body. They would both need, it seemed, to learn to be a little nicer to one another.

They ate food at some restaurant that Simon liked and then went back to the house. Most of the ride home Simon was on the phone and when they got into the house, he disappeared to yell at the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line in peace. Paula was, once again, left to her own devices. This was why she didn't vacation – two days and she was bored out of her mind. What did people do? It was hard for her to do the tourist thing while being so recognizable and just sitting in the house was numbing. If the weather were nicer they could find a pool or a beach but the grey weather persisted, always damp if not wet.

Her phone rang and it was Jeff and though she was tempted to ignore it, the professional in her demanded that she answer. She owed him at least one conversation.

"Hi Jeff," she said.

"Paula," he said, a very formal tone in his voice. It was one that, in her experience, generally preceded her getting totally bitched out.

"Just say what you want to say," she sighed.

"Oh no," Jeff said primly. "If you want to totally derail your career by taking off in the middle of the night to God knows where that's your choice."

"I left you a message telling you exactly where I was going," she said.

"At Bumfuck O'clock in the morning!" he cried.

"Don't speak to me that way," she said. "I know you're frustrated, but I do sign your paycheck."

"Is that a threat?" he screeched.

"No, but asking for respect isn't out of the question, I think."

"Okay, okay," he said. "Sorry. I was just... upset."

"Was there something specific?" she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck gently, hoping the shooting pain she felt there wasn't the prequel to a migraine. Migraines were Simon's gig, not hers.

"I want to know if you'll be back for the concert."

"What concert?" she asked. She didn't remember purchasing tickets for anything.

"YOUR CONCERT!" he yelled before reigning himself back in quickly. "Sorry. Your concert for the Today show? The kick-off for your new single?"

"Right," she said. "I don't..."

"We already moved the date once," he reminded her. "If you cancel they're not going to book you again."

"I'm not sure. Give me another day to decide," she said.

"Fine," he said, tersely.

"Jeff, I need you to understand that I need this time," she said.

"I..."

"Jeff!" she said. "This isn't about derailing my career, it's about keeping my life on track. I haven't been... well and I need to take a little time to right things, especially if the next year is going to be spent promoting an album, touring, and dealing with press. I have to be healthy to do that. Do you understand?"

"Of course," he said, sounding much more benevolent than he had 30 seconds ago. "You just... do what you need to do and we'll take care of it on this end."

"Thank you."

"What should I say to the press?" he asked. "I'm already fielding calls. They know you're out of the country and they know you're with Simon."

"Tell them... I don't know."

"Tell them you're helping me with a family emergency," Simon said from behind her where he was standing in the doorway. "Tell them I requested your help."

"Did you hear that?" Paula asked softly.

"Yeah," Jeff said. Paula hung up without saying goodbye.

"It's almost the truth," Simon said.

"Not really," she said.

"No," he said. "Not really at all."

"How was your phone call?" she asked.

"Fine," he said. "Paula, you know that it's okay, right?"

"What's okay?" she asked.

"Your being... unwell," he said.

"Oh."

"Humans... they're not meant to have as much attention as we get, I think. It makes us all a little crazy."

"You think I'm crazy?" she asked.

"I think you're tired," he said. "Which is okay."

"I used to be tired better," she said, setting her phone down on the coffee table. He came to sit beside her on the leather loveseat. The leather squeaked when he sat. The cold brads that held the leather in place were digging into her thighs so she pulled her legs up underneath her.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I know you think that my career was kind of a joke but..."

"Paula, I don't think..."

"Just. I know. But I used to be better. I lived on a bus for two years, touring. A bus! With like, eight other people living in hotels on off days and eating crappy food and catching the same cold over and over again and playing shows almost every night. Do you know how many music videos I've made? That's 16-hour shooting days listening to the same song on repeat the whole time. Plus promoting everything. Not to mention recording tracks. Spending months at a time in the studio, singing and trying not to let the fact that you've sung your voice completely out show on the recording. Drinking disgusting concoctions trying to save your vocal chords."

She sighed, rubbed her face with her hands and smudged her make-up.

"People think being famous is all parties and awards shows and free clothes but it's the hardest job in the world."

"Well," Simon said. "You were twenty-five then."

"I know," she whispered. "And now, it's like I'm starting all over and I don't know if I have it in me."

"Of course you do," he said. "Of any of us, you do."

"And if I don't?" she asked miserably. "And if I disappoint you?"

"Oh," he said. "You could break my heart. You could kick my puppy or crash my car or quit my show or lose me money but you could never disappoint me."

"I'm beginning to suspect that you're a better person than I am," she said, only partly joking.

"I've known it all along," he said. She smacked him. "You want to know what I think?"

"I do."

"I think we've gone about this vacation thing all wrong," he said.

"How so? I mean besides the fact that it started with me almost dying and then you kidnapping me and then we lost power and then I bruised a rib..."

"Stop," he said. "You aren't helping."

"Sorry," she said.

"We've been wallowing here. Moping about the house in crummy weather. We need to go to somewhere nice, somewhere sunny and warm, somewhere like..."

"Barbados!" she exclaimed. "But you have the X-Factor in just a few days."

"That call?" he said, looking down at his phone. "Sharon walked."

"WHAT?" she exclaimed. He winced and pointed to his ear.

"Ouch," he said. "There was a contract dispute. She threatens it every year you know, but this time it's going to stick."

"Well who is going to replace her?" she asked. "At such short notice?"

He stared at her.

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no. Nope. No way."

"Come on," he said. "It's perfect! We do the audition rounds together. Working and having fun and then we go to the Caribbean when that phase is finished."

"Simon," she said. "You don't want that."

"I want you by my side," he said. "I do. You know we make good TV."

"We make good American Idol," she said. "But you know I can't just stay in England indefinitely this summer!"

"Why not?" he asked. "We have recording studios here. You could work on your album. We have dance studios and record producers and fancy clothes."

"I'm from L.A. and that's where I work best," she said. "If I work on another show with you it is just going to... be too much."

"Too much?" he asked.

"Right now, what we have is new and old and perfect and comfortable and exciting all at once and I love how we are and if we throw a wrench in it we may never get back to this place," she argued. "Think of it as a producer and not as Simon, my friend."

"You tested so well for your guest spot," he argued.

"But I think you ought to find someone British," she said. "I don't think it should be me."

"You're saying no," he said.

"I am," she said.

"I could make you," he threatened. "I could bet you. What would you do?"

"Would you?" she asked, shocked. "Isn't that against the spirit of the game?"

"I am just curious what you'd do," he said.

"I'd do it," she admitted. "Because using the game that way would show that you really wanted me to stay, but it would also be underhanded and it would be hurtful and I would have to think deep and hard about what kind of friend you are for me."

"I didn't know there was a spirit to our game," he said, changing tactics.

"It's supposed to be fun," she said.

"Not at first. Remember that time you bet me I couldn't use a toilet all day? I had to be very creative," he said.

"You aren't going to make me do the show, are you?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"No. You're the mean one," he pointed out.

"I am not!" she exclaimed.

"A little bit," he said. "But that's okay. I like the naughty half of you."

"So where does that leave us?" she asked.

"I guess that's up to you," Simon said.

"I think..." She shrugged. "I think we stick with plan A. I stay until you start filming The X-Factor and then I go home."

"Home?" he asked. "What happened to shopping in Paris? What happened to Germany? Rome?"

"Who was a I kidding with that," she said dryly. "One week and I'm going crazy. I just need to get back to L.A."

"All right," he said. "Plan A it is."

They shook on it.


	7. Chapter 7

On Paula's last night, Simon acted far clingier than she'd ever seen him. They'd shared every meal together during the day and after dinner she'd excused herself to the guestroom to finish her packing. She was sitting on the floor, folding clothes to re-pack when Simon knocked on the door.

"Did you need something else?" she asked. He stepped hesitantly into the room and when Paula didn't protest he walked more confidently toward her and sat on the floor next to her.

"Need help?" he asked.

"Simon, if you help me pack you'll see all my unmentionables," she protested.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, darling," he said but he kept his hands to himself and just watched.

"Well you haven't seen mine," she said, setting a pile of blouses on top of a pile of underwear imperiously.

"Are you sure you want to go?" he asked. He'd held the question at bay for several days now but now, in the eleventh hour, he had to be sure.

"I already booked the ticket," she said. He'd offered her the use of his jet but she didn't feel right using it without him so she'd decided to go commercial. The truth was, as much as she wanted to leave, she wanted to stay. Simon was a fine host and after just a few hiccups, they'd been getting along surprisingly well. He'd made sure she'd had plenty of time to relax and she actually had started to feel better. She'd been eating regularly and sleeping full nights. Even her bruise was fading – her ribs not quite so sore.

"I can buy you another ticket, one later," Simon said.

"I don't need you to buy me things," she said. He was in the bad habit of dating women who needed more than they gave and Paula wasn't like that. His money didn't mean anything to her and she had to remind him that often. "You'll be back for auditions."

"This was our summer," he said wistfully. "We were going to spend more time together."

"Clearly, you need to be on less TV shows and then you could see me a lot more," she said, sliding a pair of black pumps into an inside pouch of her suitcase.

"I won't always be this busy," he said vaguely. "But I thought you might at least stay until your birthday."

"Don't remind me," she groaned.

"What?" he asked. "You love your birthday."

"46 seems awfully harsh for some reason," she said. "I just want to go out to dinner and wait for it to be over." Simon looked down into the suitcase and studied intently a skirt with intricate embroidery. The gold threat seemed to shimmer against the dark fabric and Simon reached out to touch it. She eyed him warily and he pulled his hand away.

"I'm older than you, you know," he said. "Every time you call yourself old you call me old."

"You are old," she said. He whimpered and clutched at his heart. "You're much more grey haired than when I met you," she pointed out.

"You're still very dyed," he said.

"Fair enough," she admitted. "But even I'm not that grey."

"A likely story," he scoffed.

"You know, Simon, my plane leaves at 6:00am," she says.

"Oh," he said. "You want to go to bed?"

"I should go to bed," she corrected.

"I'll go," he said.

"I didn't say you had to go." She reached up and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from standing. Instead, he tugged her to her feet as well.

"Are you propositioning me?" he asked, tugging her against him.

"We've slept in the same bed several times without..." she struggled to find the right word. "Propositioning." He chuckled.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked.

"No," she said. She slid her arms up his until their hands met. He realized that she'd placed them in dancing form.

"I don't dance," he said.

"It's my last night," she whined.

"There isn't any even music," he said. Her face brightened and she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.

"I have music on here," she said, tapping at the screen.

"Your music," he said. But when the tinny music started to filter out of the small speakers it was a song he knew very well. She slid the phone back into her pocket and resumed their position. "Is that Leona?"

"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face; my favorite version," she said. "Not stop talking over the song and dance with me."

"How do I...?" He wasn't much of a dancer, not even socially with beautiful women. He was stiff and awkward.

"It's easy," she assured him. "It's just like, oh, I don't know, putting a puzzle together. See here?" She moved her hand down to his hip. "See how our bodies fit together here? When your hip moves, mine follows."

"Oh," he breathed.

"Dancing is easiest when the bodies are close together," Paula continued, well into her choreographer/teacher mode. "It becomes more instinctual. Every little movement can be met and matched by my body without my brain getting in the way."

"I can't..." he was moving stiffly, in jerky movements that she was working hard to smooth out.

"Just close your eyes," she instructed. "Listen to the music. It tells you what to do." He did as she said and closed his eyes, trying to relax his muscles. He felt her rest her head against his chest and hum softly along to the song. They swayed and when he felt slightly more comfortable, he shuffled his feet a bit.

When the music finally stopped, neither let go for a moment. Finally, she lifted her head to look up at him.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "That was dancing. Not so bad, right?"

"No," he acquiesced. "Though I prefer watching you dance rather than participating."

"Even when we're all snuggly like this?" she asked, surprised.

"When you put it that way," he murmured and leaned down to kiss the corner of her mouth. She allowed it, even turned into it slightly.

"Simon," she whispered.

"You're the one who never wanted to stop kissing me," he said. "That's my paraphrasing, of course."

"Yes, but," she sighed. "Usually there are months and months between kisses."

"Because of your boyfriend or because of my girlfriend," he said. "Both of which no longer exist."

"Are you saying to want to kiss me on the regular?" she asked, surprised.

"I always want to kiss you," he admitted. "And please do not say 'on the regular.'"

"I don't know," Paula said.

"No, trust me, it makes you sound like..."

"I meant about kissing," she snapped. "We always had boundaries and now we don't."

"That makes it better," he explained, slowly like she was a small child. She stepped back and he let his arms fall down to his sides.

"I should go to sleep," she said. "Really."

"It's only about a month," Simon said, but he wasn't sure if the statement is meant to comfort her or him self.

"What?"

"Until I fly back for Idol auditions," he clarifies.

"Seems to get earlier every year," she commented. They were reaching for normalcy with long and grasping fingers.

"Well," he said. "Goodnight." But when he said this, it jolted something inside of her and she stepped back into him, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Goodnight," she whispered. He rubbed her back, touching each bump of her spine. He imagined the smoothness of the skin beneath her shirt, the scars at the base of her spine, the tiny mole to the left of her shoulder blade that he'd noticed when she wore backless dresses.

"I bet you won't come sleep in my bed tonight," he said. He'd been thinking it, but it came out of his mouth too, for some reason. She stepped back with a genuinely shocked expression.

"Simon," she said. "Why did you do that?"

"I... want you there," he said. He should have told her that he had spoken before he'd thought but didn't want to give her the upper hand.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," she said.

"We've shared a bed lots of times," he reminded her.

"I know."

"So does that mean yes?" he asked.

"Not a lot of room for discussion," she sighed. "I'm going to finish packing. I'll be down in a bit." This was a very clear dismissal so he didn't stall. He went down stairs, took a quick shower, brushed his teeth and thought about shaving but ended up not. He didn't want to send the wrong message, after all. He was in bed watching television when she appeared.

She didn't look mad, exactly. She didn't even look disappointed or surprised. Mostly, she looked resigned. She was wearing one of those fuzzy running suits that seemed to be all over California and could serve as pajamas or something for running errands – in public. When she saw him in bed, she gave a smile with some effort and unzipped her jacket to reveal a black tank top below.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "But I always have trouble sleeping before a flight."

"Why?" he asked, turning down a corner of the covers in an invitation.

"I don't know," she said. "I guess I'm nervous I won't wake up and I'll miss the flight. Or I know that I'll be tired and grumpy."

"Well, I'll be here," he said. "I won't let you oversleep. And if you're tired, you can sleep on the way to the airport and then sleep on the flight."

"I suppose," she said.

"Or you could just stay!" he said. "And we could go back to the States together in July."

"I thought we agreed," she said.

"We did," he said. "It doesn't change my preference."

She got into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and sighing. She made sure there were several inches of space between them. He reached up and turned out the light. He knew he should apologize and take the bet back, let her go sleep in her own bed but he felt selfish and didn't want her to go.

But she wasn't kidding. She tossed and turned. She fluffed her pillow, she rolled over, she sighed and kicked down the blankets and then pulled them back up.

"Paula," he said.

"Sorry, but I warned you," she snapped, clearly frustrated with herself more than anything else.

"I just wanted to know if there's anything I can do to help?" he said.

"You could come with me," she blurted.

"What?" he asked.

"I hate London," she seethed. "It's cold and electrically unstable and driving makes me nervous!"

"Electrically unstable?" he laughed.

"We're happier in L.A., both of us," she argued.

"I have to stay for the show," he said. "You know that. It's my show."

"I know," she said, her voice sounding awfully small in the dark. "But if you could..."

"The only reason I prefer L.A. is because you're there. When you're in London, I prefer it here," he said.

"That's sweet but do you mean it?" she asked.

"I think I do," he said. "Don't make me say it to the press or anything."

"Yeah, yeah. Mean old Simon," she said.

"Now can you sleep? Do you need some warm milk or something?"

"Ew," she said. "Why in the world would I want that?"

"It's supposed to be soothing or something," he chuckled.

"You want to be soothing, rub my back," she said, and rolled away from him. It wasn't exactly a bet but she said it in such a way that he didn't think he could decline. He slid his hand beneath her tank top and rubbed her back the way his mother had rubbed his when he was small – soothing circles. When he encountered the back of her bra, he merely lifted his hand and moved above it.

"I thought you weren't supposed to sleep in one of those," he said.

"Modesty," she murmured, already sounding sleepier. He understood what she meant – keeping her modesty intact though it wasn't like he was going to pounce on her or something. Not unless expressly invited.

He heard the moment her breath hitched for the last time before falling into a deeper sleeping pattern. He pulled his hand away and rolled over. When he put his hand to his face, he could smell her on his skin.

The alarm came awfully soon. They both sat up, unwilling to prolong the inevitable. Paula left the room to change into the outfit she'd laid out the night before and then returned to shove her pajamas into the little bit of space left in her suitcase. Simon shaved in the mirror, nicking himself more than once due to bleary, sleep filled eyes. When Paula came into find him, she tsked and tore off a square of toilet paper to press to the blood spreading in the water on his neck.

"You should be careful," she said. They were the first words either of them had spoken since they'd woken up.

"Sorry," he said, automatically. She pulled the paper away and tossed it into the trash before leaving him alone in the bathroom to wait downstairs.

She let him load the suitcase into the car and he waited while she did a final walk through of the house looking for any forgotten belongings. She came back with an earring in one hand and a sock in the other.

"Can I keep this?" Simon asked taking the earring she'd held up to show him.

"What? Why?" she asked.

"Just until I see you again," he said. "I'll give it back in San Francisco, okay?"

"Sure," she said. He could tell she thought it was weird. She'd never seen him be sentimental before, perhaps.

The drive to the airport was quiet. Neither wanted to be apart and neither was going to change their minds.

"I'm always sad when we have to be in different countries," Paula said.

"You don't have to be," he pointed out.

"No, I do. But I'm sad about it," she promised.

At the airport, he kissed her on both cheeks and made sure she got her luggage checked. He wanted to wait in the security line with her but she wouldn't let him.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'll see you in a few weeks?"

"You will," he said. He leaned down and gave her a light kiss on the lips. "Fly safe."

"Thanks for the ride," she said. He made himself not look back as he made his way to the car.

On the plane, Paula wanted to sleep but she couldn't. It was a full flight and even in first class, she sat next to someone. It was a businessman, maybe in his sixties and, from what he said to the flight attendant, and American. They didn't bother to make introductions or small talk and she was grateful. Either he didn't know who she was or didn't care and she hung on to the small bit of normality offered.

It was a long flight, even with the comfort of luxury. She had plenty of time to sit and think about the last couple weeks. She'd never known anyone like Simon before. Someone that cruelty came naturally to and yet, at the same time, dropped everything in the name of kindness. Simon could dissolve some pop star wannabe into tears with three words but for Paula, where she was concerned, he was practically a saint.

"Are you married?" Paula asked, clearly startling the man next to her. They were three hours in and still had a long ways to go. The man glanced down at his left hand briefly before answering.

"Twenty-five years," he answered. When she didn't respond he swallowed. "And you?"

"No," she said, absently. "Not anymore."

"Ah," he said and looked back down at the newspaper he was reading.

"Your wife," Paula said after a few moments. "How often do you fight?"

"I'm not sure..."

"I know it's none of my business," she said. "Sorry." The look on his face was confused.

"When we first got married," he said, slowly. "We fought all the time."

"And yet you stayed married for so long?" she asked.

"Actually, I really miss the fighting," he admitted. "That was the fun part."

"Hmm," she said.

"I'm not usually so candid with strangers," he said and then tilted his head, looking closely at her. "Say, there's something very familiar about you."

"Yeah," she said. "I get that a lot."


	8. Chapter 8

In San Francisco, Paula wanted to go outside. She watched the people on the sidewalks, safely ensconced in her long, black car. Outside looked beautiful – sunny and breezy. July had been hot in L.A. but San Francisco was some how sunny and still refreshingly cool. The water wasn't far and all the tall buildings created a wind tunnel that kept the heat off the sidewalks.

"I wish I could walk," Paula said. She was alone in the car excluding the driver – mostly she was talking to herself.

"I'll pull over if you want, Miss Abdul, but you should know that the Cow Palace is actually in Daly City, not San Francisco proper and it'd be a long walk," the driver said.

"I remember," she said. "Just wishful thinking." She was happy there wasn't a Los Angeles audition this year. It always felt so incestuous.

When they arrived at the venue, the butterflies in her stomach started beating themselves against her ribcage. She was an odd mixture of nerves and excitement but she wasn't sure which one was in the majority. She was compulsively smoothing out her skirt, fluffing her hair and checking her make-up in her compact.

She wasn't late but she wasn't exactly on time. She had enough time to enter through the back and slide into her seat. After seven years of the show, there wasn't much more to discuss. They all had it down pretty pat. A production assistant wearing a yellow shirt led her through the corridors to the audition room. The girl was young and familiar only in the most vague way. Maybe because she'd worked on the American Idol crew the year before or maybe because most of the production assistants were young, twenty something film gofers with pale skin and blue eyes. She held open the door for Paula – Paula held her breath.

But Simon's chair was empty. Randy was in his, he was almost always the first to arrive. His back was to her and he held his phone to his ear. He was plugging his other ear with one finger while more yellow shirted kids lugged around equipment and tinkered with lighting. Across the room through the double doors she could hear the buzzing noise of conversation and above that, Ryan working the early crowd. A few people looked up when she entered but no one did more than nod or smile. She would sit in her seat and wait for make-up touch ups and then, when Simon arrived, they would begin. Same song, same dance, new season.

The wings in her torso beat unrelentingly along. Randy didn't hang up but he did bump her with his chair in greeting. Paula smiled with some effort and re-smoothed her skirt. The same girl who led her back to the room set a cup of Diet Coke down on the table in front of her and handed her a paper straw without a word.

"What's your name?" Paula asked. The girl looked at her for a few more beats before responding.

"Amelia," she said, finally.

"Was I supposed to know that already?" Paula asked. "Is that why you paused?"

"No," Amelia said. "If you were supposed to know our names, we'd wear nametags."

"Well," Paula said. "Thank you for the straw."

"You're welcome, Ma'am."

"Do you know if Simon has arrived yet?" Paula asked. Randy ended his conversation to listen to the answer with new interest. She wasn't sure if he was interested in Simon's arrival or Paula's interest. Amelia tapped her headset.

"His car just arrived. I'm going down to escort him now," she said. "Anything else?"

"No," Paula said. Amelia left through the doors that Paula entered through.

"How're you?" Randy asked Paula.

"Fine," she said. Her make-up touch up girl had just arrived and was walking intently toward Paula with brush in hand. "You?"

"Fine," he said. "Another day, another dollar."

"Another year, you mean," she said as the girl started dabbing at her face earnestly.

"I try not to think like that," Randy said. "You thinking of pulling the plug?"

"Huh?" she said. "No."

"Good. I do not think Cowell would be able to stand it. You heard about Sharon, right?" Randy said, lowering his voice.

"I was there," Paula said.

"What?" Randy asked. Paula winced and the make-up artist tapped her chin lightly – a gentle admonishment to remain still. "I thought all that stuff in the Daily Mirror was made-up. You actually went to London?"

"For a week or so," Paula said. "Just to get out of L.A."

"With Simon?" Randy asked.

"No big deal," Paula said. "We went to a museum, I went home."

"Hmm."

"Can we not talk about it with fourteen cameras pointed at us, please?" Paula said.

"We aren't rolling," Randy said.

"We're always rolling," she muttered, unwrapping her straw and dropping it into her cup. The make-up artist let her be. Simon must've been close.

And he was. The door opened and he walked through holding his phone and his keys and his cigarettes and she didn't mean to stand up but suddenly she was on her feet. She smiled at him and he smiled and opened his arms and when he hugged her, her foot popped a little.

"Hi," he said. It wasn't like she hadn't spoken with him in their time apart but there was something about being in the same room that made everything a little brighter.

"Hi," she said, pressing her face into his chest. She could almost hear the make-up girl stomp impatiently.

"Hi," he said again.

"Lord," Nigel said. "We need to start."

"Don't you have a pirouette to go judge?" Simon called over the crown of her head.

"Jealousy is unattractive on a man your age," Nigel called back. "Asses in seats, please."

It was like riding a bicycle. Simon's arm shifted the weight of her chair and the smell of his cologne was distracting just enough. The kids filed through the door – they took a ticket or were denied one. Most were bad. Sometimes, someone hit a note so pure that her breath caught in her throat and even Simon said yes without hemming and hawing.

At the lunch break she sat next to him at a round table without a tablecloth. Randy didn't sit with them. He handled the fighting better than much else – when they were on extremely good terms, which was rare, he couldn't face it at all. Ryan popped his head in and out. He liked to mingle with those in the holding room but always watched the judges when the cameras were off rather closely. Paula could tell Ryan thought something was going to happen. He watched her with radio eyes, like he was just waiting to file a news story.

Simon ate fleetingly, like an after thought, and touched his foot to hers.

"Are you happy to see me?" he asked.

"Of course," she said.

"Because you left me and I wasn't sure."

"I didn't leave you Simon," she said. "I just went home."

"Semantics."

"We're here together now," she pointed out, ever the optimist.

"So we are."

"I wish you would trust me," she said. "What can I do?"

"I've been thinking about that very thing," he said. "I think we should play one more round of the game."

"You want to end the game?" she asked, her voice high. A wave of nostalgia was all ready to wash over her.

"I want to make the final bet. If you agree, you win. If you decline, I win," he said.

"And winning entails?" she asked.

"I don't know. It depends on the answer, I suppose. Winner's choice?" he offered.

"Okay," she said. "When?"

"Now."

"Okay," she said. She knew she was giving him the power, giving him the last bet but Simon also didn't relish change and to have him suggest the end of a seven year game meant something big, she was sure.

"You ready?" he asked, lowering his voice and leaning into her.

"You bet," she said, taking a deep breath.

"Paula Abdul, I bet you'll leave me," he said. She sat up, her eyes wide. This was quite the challenge. He was asking her for a long time. He was asking her to trust him, to stay with him, to believe in something she wasn't sure she believed in. This was as good as him telling her that he loved her and now he was waiting to see if she was going to say it back.

Did she love him?

Well, yes, she supposed. But was that enough?

"Back in five," a production assistant shouted. "On set in five."

"Paula," he said. The waiting was agony for an impatient man.

"No," she said, finally. She felt sound in her decision.

"No," he said and all the air seemed to leave his body and deflate him. "All right."

"I mean no," she said. "I won't ever leave you." He breathed in again.

"You win," he said, smiling gleefully. She smiled back.

"I know."

The End


End file.
